That night, we lay in a quiet bay surrounded by rocky islets. After we had finished eating, in the thin light beyond sunset, we sat and watched the little peeping birds that run at the tideline. As each wave shushed in, they would tail about and trot away across the lead-gleaming shore, piping shrilly. As each wave slid out, they would advance again, all of a company, feet pattering, bills stabbing the soft mud. Whenever anything surprised them -- once a seal, slipping through the quiet water, raised its whiskered head to gaze curiously at us, before rolling back under the silver scaled sea -- they would rise at once, altogether, and swirl over our heads in a wild clammer of sound. I said some quiet, lazy thing about how comic they were. Lochlann said that they were like the warriors of Ch'in, and the way that he said it made a picture in my mind of a great army, more folk than I had ever seen in my life, all identically dressed, running to and fro across a vast plain.
It was strange to me to hear someone talk of the land of Ch'in, not in some wild tale of magicians and dragons, but in that idle, end-of-the-day way. I wanted to know much more about it. Lochlann told me of a wall so great that it stood as high as the great castles of Miklagard, so long that no-one he had met knew where it ended. He talked of the fine silks of the rich, and the filthy rags of the poor; of the flat, yellow faces of the folk. He talked of how the folk valued writing, and of how strange their writing was to him, so that in all the time he was there he could not begin to understand even a bit of it. He said that the son of the poorest man could become the greatest servant of the king, if only he could read and write, and knew the poems.
He told me of the cleverness of the craftsmen of Ch'in: of toys made with fire, which raised the voice of Mjolnir in the streets, or threw coloured stars high into the sky at night. He told me of dishes made of clay, beautifully coloured in blue and white, or green, or liquid black, so fine that you could see the light through them, but so strong that they would last many lives of men. He told me of boats with sails like the wings of bats that were so close winded that they could sail against both the wind and the stream of a river, which had impressed him so much that he had learned all he could of them, and had built his own boat, not just like them, but using what he had learned.
But the thing that stays with me most, and that stays with me because of how Lochlann told me of it, was the picture of this great country - no-one knows how vast, stretching perhaps to the furthest edge of Midgard -- where there were no wars, there was no raiding, where a woman could walk alone. And I knew that he was thinking, that the north of the world could be like that, too.
So we talked; and afterward slept, and in the morning made sail north around Wrath Ness and out on the Whale's Road. And indeed, although that was a wild, cold sail, with veils of thin cold rain slipping out of the west over us, so that the sail was dark, and the ropes were hard to our hands, and our garments were leaden and clammy, yet we shared our road with the great whales. It was a joy and a wonder for me to see them, rising black out of the sullen grey ocean, so vast that our boat was beside them as a pig is to a stallion, breathing that long, crashing sigh, tasssscchhhh.....hohhhffff. They offered us no harm, and showed us no fear, but would effortlessly shoulder the rollers apart beside us, watching us with one, great, quiet eye, for as long as a man might take to eat a meal; and then, with a solemn wave of a tail the size of a ship, they would be gone, sliding quietly down into the cold dark.
The great whales were our company, they and the gold crowned solan geese rising on the wind to fall into the water after fish, and the dark, slender shearwaters, sliding over the unstill surface on sword-shaped wings. These, and all the other birds of the wide ocean, the great auks that only swim, and the lesser that fly low and fast on whirring wings, with great, painted bills or sharp spearlike ones; these, these and, too, the fluttering petrels dancing with the wild white horses, and the fulmar, stiff winged still and white as whittled driftwood, these watched over us as we ran down the old grey cold grey waters to where they gnawed and fretted at the fanged islands of the North Way.
The wild was already taking back the place of my childhood. Rank grass and weeds and willow seedlings grew out of the fallen thatch of my father's hall, and choked the yard, hiding the scattered bones. Already this place that had been my home only a year ago felt foreign from me, like a distant memory. The ruined stead did not hoard memories of past happiness, as I had feared it would. Instead, it spoke only of ruin, and abandonment, and waste. It held nothing for me. We left it without a backward glance, and climbed the hill to find shelter again in the bothy there, which welcomed us with far more remembered warmth.
It was part of the joy of going north in the morning of that year that we had the time that the ferns uncoil themselves to strike at the warming air, that time that the flimsy leaves grasp greedy for the new light -- that time we had twice, once in the Sutherland before we left and again in the north when we came there. Aah, the sparkling green of the birch and the larch, the cool grey of the willow. Aah, the flashing white of the drungan tree, with the leaves to follow.
After we had left the bothy behind we walked across the high meadow towards the snow of the great hills, on a day that was warm and golden and ringing with larks, so that we both remembered the day a year before that we had walked that same path together. As the day wore on, we stopped more and more often to kiss one another; and when we came at last among the birches we lay down without words.
He was tender, and careful, and gentle, and very sweet; and it was for me as it had been before. And afterwards, as we lay there in the afternoon sun, still clinging together, I thought.
This was not what I had dreamed of: not as I had dreamed it would be. But, but. He was more than a companion to me, more than a protector. He was most of all my friend. He would listen to me. He would talk with me. And... And when I watched the wind stir in his dusty hair, that was always short but never tidy; or the way he wiped away the gummy muck that collected under his empty eyelid, or the fine wrinkles of his face hardening as he narrowed his eye against the sun, till his strong nose stood from his face like a crag; or the smooth muscles sliding under his pale shoulders as he peeled off his sark to wash in a beck; and when I heard the sound of his voice, which was never loud but always heard, then there was pain at my heart, and the fire would start in my belly that he could so rarely release. And I knew that there would be no other man for me, and that I didn't want there to be; and that if it wasn't always what I had dreamed of with him, it was still far, far better than the best I could imagine without him. And after I realised that I was shy and gay and flirty all the rest of that evening, so that I know that Lochlann came to think I must be ill.
So we began the long climb up through the forest and out onto the snows. It took us three days to struggle up to the highlands; five to cross the high plains to the place where we started to descend; and yet another three days through the forest to get back to the lands where there were houses and farms and fields. Even then, there was still Tel Mark to cross, as I shall tell you. But those first days crossing the height of the land were hard, hard, hard. Not but there were many things to bring joy to the heart, in the sights and smells of the growing time, there in the empty places of the world.
There was no path, to speak of, most of the way. On the lower slopes, where the forest grew thick of oak and birch, it was not so bad; but where the forest was thin was weary going. It was early in the year, and the new bracken was only just rising from the wreck of the old. But the brambles tangled at our feet, and masked the stones that tripped us, or caught our ankles. When it rained, the dripping branches would soak all our clothing through. And as we climbed, so it was cold. When we came higher, to where the larches and the pines grew thick and low, that was worse. Then there was the snow, rotten and slushy with the coming summer, breaking into great holes under our feet, and hiding the hazards below. So that we were wet and cold, cold, and tired so I do not want even to remember it.
There was one night that was the worst. Rain was drumming down on a high old snow field. The water carved channels in the surface of the snow, like it does on a beach; or else found its way down through sink holes to cut under the crust. Wind drove across the waste from behind us. There was not a stick of shelter in sight, but a pile of old grey boulders we came to as the light was dying. We found a crack in the lee of them, and huddled into it. Lochlann had brought a small amount of firewood bound to his pack, but he might as well not have bothered, for no power on earth would have lit it there. So there was no warmth, and all we could do for food was chew on dried deer-meat. We sat in that crack, with the rain washing down the face of the boulders behind us, to shiver the night out. At last it seemed to me so foolish that we should be doing this that I moaned.
"Ah! by all the gods in Asgard! Why do we have to climb these heaps of rotten turd, when we could just have sailed quietly up the cat's gut to Altborg?"
"We'd have needed to sail more than ordinarily quietly, Kirsten. I'm sorry the path's so hard, but I did warn you... the way of it is, that my enemies are strong along the shores of the cat's gut, so that if they found us sailing there it would not go well for us. But my friends are strong in the back lands of Tel Mark, so that we will be safe passing that way. Also, we will meet other friends as we cross the height of the land, and I need to speak with them. And it is better that my enemies think that I spend the winter in Tel Mark, for if they knew the truth of it they would only have to wait for me among the Sudreys, and that would be one end to it. I would rather not see that end to it! So, if you will bear with it, we will climb these heaps of rotten turd, quietly, and come upon them from where they think I am."
We came down out of that pass the next day, in better weather. We were both glad to see the back of it. We went on down through the thick pinewoods of the high hills, until we came to a wide mountain meadow strewn with tarns. A great herd of reindeer were grazing there; and beyond, on a little saddle between two tarns, a huddle of huts with firesmoke drifting lazily from them. We walked down across the meadow to the camp.
That was the first time I came to a camp of the Sami. They are a strange folk to look on, small, with flat faces, lined and seamed like old, soft walrus hide. Their hair and eyes are dark, and the older men wear wispy beards. Their huts are small and dome shaped, built of bent withies with hides stretched over them; and their clothing, too, is made not of woven cloth but of skins. Their language was strange to me, and they do not willingly use the speech of the North. They were quietly courteous to us, making us welcome to their fire and offering us food, and some drink that was strange to me and that I did not like.
Lochlann spoke with the Sami who were round the fireplace, using their own speech, so that I could not follow. After I had eaten, I wandered down to one of the further tarns. I took off all my clothes, and took everything out of my pack and spread it out to dry. Then I bathed myself in the clear cold water, and lay on a warm bank in the sun to dry, and drowsed.
When the chilling of evening roused me, I pulled my clothes back on, sorted out and repacked my gear, slung the sword to my belt, and walked back up to the camp, to be greeted again with offers of food and drink. My mantle and jerkin were still damp, but that is the way of it when you're travelling. All the party were gathered round the fire now, and I saw there were about thirty of them, all ages from babies at breast up.
Sitting in front of the centre hut was the oldest of them, a creased and pleated elder with black eyes glittering out of slanting slices in his seamed face. His silver hair he wore bound back in a long horse tail; his wispy beard trailed down over a heavy necklace of bears teeth and badger skulls. As I came into the firelight, Lochlann rose and took me over to the old man; we crouched on our heels before him. Lochlann spoke with him in the speech of the Sami, introducing me, for he said my name, and the old man repeated it. He reached out his hands, and ran them over my face, hard and rough as oyster shells; and I saw that there was mist in his glinting eyes, so that he could not see me.
When the eating was done, the Sami made music, singing, and playing on wooden pipes, soft lonely mournful tunes, until it was almost full dark, and the great wanderer shone fiercely in the western sky. Then the whistles fell silent, and talking died away. A boy brought the old man a drum.
He stroked the drum, soft, running patterings of fingers chasing one another across the painted skin, and began to chant, high like singing, but without a tune, chanting, singing, chanting, tat-ta-tatata, softly, on. Suddenly there was a whirr by my ear, and there was one of those small grey-green birds that whitter from the willows and the reed-beds but are not seen. It settled on my shoulder for a moment, plucked a tiny feather from its breast, dropped it in my lap, and with a whirr of wings it was gone. To be followed almost at once by another. Another. Another -- and then it seemed there was a cloud of little shy birds whirling around me in the firelight, and each dropped a feather.
The circle of folk around the fire made no sound. Only the whirr of wings was there, and the chanting, chanting soft pattering drum sounds chanting tatata-tat-at-tata...atat dry creaky voice pattering on the drum pattering chanting pattering...
The feathers fell like rain. They fell in my lap. On my breast. Shoulders. Hair. Where they fell it was as though holes were cut through me. Tiny holes. Snowflakes (pattering chanting pattering pattering on dry bark fingers skipping and jumping on drum skin pattering pattering). Through my arms the beaten earth. Through my left leg the mat I sat on. Whirring wings pattering fingers pattering pattering on....
I slept.
At some time during the night, someone had tucked Lochlann's great blue mantle around me. When I awoke, I was visible.
They talked for a long while in the queer speech of the Sami, and each thing that Lochlann said seemed to come out sharper; but the old man merely puffed into his wispy beard, and spoke slow and quiet and singing. At last Lochlann said something that seemed to end it for him. He swung round to me, rising as he did so. Then the old man spoke again, clear in the language of the North, seeking me with his sightless eyes so that I knew he meant me to hear -- "If the lord of battle is going to speak peace to the prince of peace, then he should bear a sword in his hand and have a good friend to watch his back..."
"Ach" -- Lochlann was sharp now -- "The land has seen too many swords, and heard too little of peace. But I will have many friends to watch my back."
The great trees of the deep woods in the valley lands had been bursting to first leaf when we had climbed into the great fells; now, as we came down again across the flanks of the highland on the morning side, the leaves were full and thick and glossy. The bluebells and the garlic of spring were going over; the bracken was spreading its arthritic fronds to the fire of the returning sun. Below us the forest stretched away, great foaming waves of oak, crest beyond crest, far into the south; and on the edge of sight, the trickle of smoke or smudge of different green that spoke of farmland. Beyond that still, in the height of the day, a glint would show where the cat's gut lay. Later, as the woods rose around us, and the slope eased so we could less often see out over them, we came upon a beck greater than any we had yet crossed; and we turned to follow this down the slope.
The afternoon of that day there was a roaring before us; and then, as we clambered down through the twisting tunnel the beck had carved through the forest, suddenly there was light before us -- clear, bright, golden daylight, not the green glow of the deep woods. The trees before us opened like the entrance of a sea cave, and beyond was a far view, but that it was misted and shifting with rainbow colours. The noise was like a storm on cliffs, not rythmic but continuous.
We came to the edge of the rocks, and found we were looking down a high force. The water crashed into a pool far below us, that was the colour of old ale. About the pool on either side were great flat rocks, and a small meadow, before the forest closed in again. A mist drifted up from the pool, so that although the sun was hot, the air was fresh and cool. Lochlann led me down through the woods till we came out onto the little meadow, so that we could see the force toppling down towards us, flashing and glittering like living crystal.
There, we made a fire on the rocks by the pool, and Lochlann guddled us some fresh trout from the water that we grilled over it, and ate with sweet herbs that I had gathered along the way.
After we had eaten, we lay on the rocks talking idly until the sun had gone in and it started to be cold. Then he showed me a ledge of rock that led in behind the rush of water, and there was a cave, leading deep into the rock, with a floor that shelved gently upwards. We climbed into it, and to my surprise, it was quite dry inside, and not so noisy as I would have thought it would be.
The following day, I woke first, with clear dawn light sparkling through the roaring curtain in front of the cave. I crawled out, gathering all our stinking clothes into a bundle, and carrying them down to the meadow. There I washed them in the clear water, and spread them on the rocks to dry. Then I lit a small fire, and wandered about for while, until the sun grew warmer, looking at the small plants of the meadow and the fish in the pool, and the bright new leaves of all the trees about. When at last it was no longer cold enough that I was goosefleshed, and the fire was burning well, I dived into the pool and let the surging water clean me.
It was cold in the pool, so that I was not in it long. I crouched by my little fire and let the sun dry me. As I sat there, I watched Lochlann climb down from the cave. He came naked, for I had already brought all of his clothes but his mantle. He was always an easy man for me to look on, but that morning it was good to watch the long muscles play across his back and buttocks, so that when he turned towards me so that I could see his cock resting like a nestling in the golden hair of his groin, I wanted it within me. When he was by me, I reached up to him and drew him down onto the grass beside me, close enough that my fire warmed both of us, and dug my hands into the muscles of his back and arse, pulling and kneading at them. After a while, he rolled over, and I saw he was ready for me. So then I straddled him, and rode him till his seed came in me, and lay on his chest and rested. And then we swam; and then we fucked again.
After that, the clothes were dry, and we dressed, and sat on the rocks and dangled our feet in the water, and talked some more. I asked him -
"Lochlann, you know that you said that we had to come this way, because if we just sailed up to Altborg your enemies would see us?"
"Aye..."
"and also, that you aren't sure how it will come out when we get there, so that you didn't wish for me to come with you?"
"Aye..."
"and you know that when you left your boat in the swimming voe, it seemed to be just a rock, and when the raiders came to our stead, it seemed to be just a hummock in the ground?"
"Mmhmmm..."
"Why could you not have made the boat seem to be nothing but a wave on the water, while we sailed through the cat's gut? And why can you not just make the Thing decide all the things you want it to, without even going there?"
"Are you saying, because that I can do some things with magic, then why can I not do anything with magic?"
"Yes, that's what I'm asking..."
"So. Have you had a dream, and in the dream something is going to happen that you don't want to happen, and you don't want it really strongly, and then, in the dream, it doesn't happen?"
"Mhmmm... Mmm, yes, perhaps. Yes, I think I've had a dream like that..."
"So. Sometimes, when you're dreaming, are you not sure whether it's a dream or whether it's real?"
"Sometimes, yes..."
"Then what's the difference between what's in a dream and what's not in a dream?"
"Oh! don't be silly. If it's a dream, then when I wake up, whatever it was I did hasn't happened."
"How do you know it hasn't happened?"
"Well, because none of the folk who were in the dream remember it. And also suppose" -- I flushed, bit back what I was going to say, and went on -- "suppose I broke my arm in a dream, when I woke up my arm wouldn't still be broken..."
"All right then, when you die, suppose that you were killed by having your head chopped off, then, when you go to wherever it is folk go to when they die, would you still have a head?"
I didn't know about that one. All the priests would say you do. I've never heard of headless folk, either in Val Hall, or in Hel, or in the christmen's heaven. I made a dubious noise.
"But living might be like a dream that you only wake up from when you die?"
I made an even more dubious noise: "Does that mean that I'm dreaming you?"
"Ha! I don't know. Perhaps you are! In which case I hope that I'm a good dream. But no, the old man on the hill, who taught me how to do this, he said that life is a dream which we all dream together. Does that seem right to you?"
I made an uncertain sort of noise.
"So: you can change your own dream if you want to enough: yes? And also, life is like a dream that we share. But usually we can't change the dream of life. That might be because every one else has ideas about how the dream of life should go, and they're all pushing it in various directions, and the direction it really does go is the way it's forced into by all that pushing. So when someone does change the dream of life, how would he do that? If you push suddenly, in an unexpected direction, you'll change things a little bit, perhaps. If there are only a few other folk pushing at that particular bit of the dream at the same time, you might change it a lot, perhaps?"
I made another uncertain noise. Lochlann sat up straighter and looked at me directly.
"Look, when you looked hard at the rock -- really hard -- you saw the boat, didn't you, so that you could crawl under it and hide."
"Yes... yes, I did."
"Good! so. When folk went to look at the rock, there were only ever a few folk at a time; and apart from you, no-one was really sure that it ought to be a boat, not a rock. When you pushed at it, you could see it. But the raiders didn't push at it, because they didn't know it shouldn't be a rock. Are you with me so far?"
"Yes... perhaps..."
"Good. So then, when I met you all running away from the first raid, none of you knew what you wanted to happen, so none of you was pushing hard in any particular direction. Also, you already thought I was perhaps a god, who could change the dream. So when I pushed hard, I could change the stead, and when you saw that it was changed, you all pushed with me to keep it changed. The raiders didn't know just where the stead should be, so they couldn't push against us. After that, you all expected that when a raid happened, the same thing would happen again, and because you believed it, it always did..."
"Ohh! So when the village reappeared again, it reappeared because we all -- because -- because you said..."
"I'm sorry, Kirsty. I'm sorry, I'm sorry..."
As we came down a wooded path into a valley, we heard a confusion of sounds ahead of us. There came a chanting of Christmen, then a wailing of womenfolk. There was a burst of angry shouting. And then, suddenly, a scream, and the dull thud of weapons on flesh.
"Come on, they're slaughtering christmen!"
Lochlann sprinted past me, but as he went, he said "I wish I thought you were right."
We burst out of the woodshaw into a meadow that sloped down to a river. In front of us, beside the ford that the path was leading us to, was a deep pool. In the pool a Christman was standing, up to his waist in the water. He faced away from us. Beyond him, on the far bank, were four groups of folk. There were two groups of captives, surrounded by armed warriors. There was a group of Christmen in brown robes, chanting. In front of them, between them and the river, stood a lordly dressed man, with a Christman by his side. This Christman wore white robes with gold on them. In front of them again, an old man stood between two guards. We could see he was arguing with the Christman. Beside this group was a pile of bloody corpses.
Lochlann strode through the ford and up to the lordly dressed man. I followed, and caught up to hear the lordly man give him the sort of greeting you're meant to take offence at. The lordly man looked very much like Lochlann, but that he had two eyes. But Lochlann ignored him. He turned to the old man.
"So, Fellbjorn, what does my brother want of you this day?"
The old man spat.
"He would have me wash my head at the white christ, or else he's minded to wash it in my blood, to see if it looks better that way. But I was telling him that my head was clean enough for my purposes as it is, and that I prefer to wash it from the inside, and with ale."
"Oh, brother" -- Lochlann said to the lordly man -- "you must have a mighty desire to see the christmen's hell."
"It's you that will see hell, if you stand against me here; and if you're keen to go, I'll have my warriors send you there this night. I am building me a seat in heaven; and I've a mind to have my friend Fellbjorn and his folk with me there. But if a man won't take the gifts his king offers, well, he may offend his king; and his king may get angry. I was just pointing out to old Fellbjorn what had happened to these other good farmers here, when their king got angry with them, and how on the whole it was better to put your head under water than underground."
"I was wondering about those farmers" -- said Lochlann, thoughtfully, looking at the heap of carrion. "How did they all come to have holes in them?"
"Why, they disagreed with me. So I had my men poke them to let the choler out."
"I see..." Lochlann turned to one of the warriors standing by. "So you have not washed your head at the white christ?"
"Indeed I have! I am a good servant of the christ!"
Lochlann dug the grubby little book out from the bottom of his pack.
"But has the good bishop here not told you that the white christ forbids his servants from killing? Look, he says..."
-- and he read from the book in a strange language. The warrior looked blank, and the man in the white robe looked angry. Beyond him, the chanting stopped suddenly, and I could see that some of the brown-clad men looked startled. They could understand him. Lochlann looked up at the man in the white robe, and pretended to be surprised that he didn't understand.
"Oh, but I see you don't have the Romish speech. I'll read it for you in our words. Listen, the white christ said: you were told long ago that for each eye of yours that was hurt, you should hurt an eye of your enemies; and for each tooth of yours that your enemy hurt, well you should do the same back. But I say to you -- this is what the white christ says -- I say to you, that you must not kill, but you must do good even to those who hurt you. Is that not how he said it, Bishop? are these not the white christ's words?"
The man in the white robe looked at him with angry eyes, and spoke through angry lips. "And what would a poor madman like yourself know of the white christ's words, that you should seek to tell an anointed servant of God? Your hands are none so clean of killing, and as for your words and your book, what of them? Where had you it?"
"Why, I went to the place where the christ was born, at the end of the middle sea, south of Miklagard, and there I spoke with the christman who is head of the church at the birthplace -- Per Antoninus, surely you'll have met him when you were there? -- and he gave me the book in exchange for a map of the road to Ch'in. But tell me, Bishop, did I not have the words aright?"
The man in white did not answer. But one of the brown clad men said: "yes, that's how it is written in the holy book in the church at Danzig."
The man in white turned furiously, raising his hooky staff that was like a shepherds, only covered with gold and enamel. Then slowly, as if he was forcing himself, he turned back to face Lochlann. "But seeing you know so much of the white christ, surely you will persuade good Fellbjorn here to know him as God, and be baptised in the river?"
"I will not!"
"What, man, dare you to deny that the white christ is the son of the only God?"
"As to that", Lochlann replied -- "I don't know. But I don't think it is wise for a man to follow the white christ, and promise not to defend himself, when there are wolves as evil as my brother here to rend them. And I don't think it's wise to just pretend to accept the white christ as God, but not follow any of his teachings, like you do, because if the white christ really is a god, he said some fierce things about folk who pretend to believe, but lie in their hearts. But I don't believe the white christ is a god, because if he was, and he saw snakes like you killing in his name, he would strike you down with a thunderbolt where you stand. Now go, for Fellbjorn has his cows to milk, and those women there have their husbands to bury, and you are disturbing them. And brother, if this is how you rule the kingdom, perhaps it is time I gave up the road of peace, and came home. Go. I will see you at the Thing at the solstice; I hope your hands are cleaner then."
The lordly dressed man stared at Lochlann for a long moment. Lochlann met his stare, calm as he was, steady. Then the man broke away, calling out to his men to follow. They marched off down the river valley, all of a bunch, and the christmen following. The man in the pool was all but left behind. He surged out of the water and scampered after them, his wet robe flapping around his legs.
Folk came forward from where they had been herded, and tended the corpses. There was anger between those who had submitted to the dipping, and the relations those who had refused. I brought water from the pool to help the women wash away the blood. The dead were not all men, as I had thought, but men and women both -- and one lad little more than a child. In all, six were dead.
Hurdles were brought from the nearest stead, and we carried the bodies to an old burial place that was near by. Through the long afternoon we dug graves, and buried them. Fellbjorn said a prayer over the grave of the lad, and it was a prayer to the white christ. I said to him, after, "why do you pray to the christ, if you will not be dipped for him?"
The old man snorted. "I've been dipped for the christ already! It's not the christ I mind. Indeed, the christ is the God for me. But there's a difference between dipping for the christ, and dipping for Jarl Olaf, who calls himself king."
After the burials, the old man took us back to his hall, and many of the other folk came too. There we shared a meal, and slept that night. But it was not a happy place, and we were glad to leave it in the morning, following the track down the valley that Jarl Olaf had taken the day before.
In the evening, we came to a great steading on a ness running out into a wide lake. The ness was almost an eyot, standing tall and steep sided out of the clear water, and capped by pines at its further end. The neck, where it joined the shore, was low and marshy. Beyond it, a broad dyke crossed the ness from shore to shore, faced with stout palings to twice the height of a man. The trackway passed through a tall gateway in the dyke. Beyond the dyke, a meadow rose to where a great hall stood on the ridge of the ness. The walls of the hall were painted white, and glowed in the light of the lowering sun. The roof glowed too, golden, for it was thatched with new reed: but it looked like the golden roof of Val Hall when we saw it first. Beyond the hall, we could see the roofs of other buildings, and beyond them again were the pines.
As the folk of the stead saw Lochlann come in through the gateway there was waving, and a lad sprinted up to the door of the hall. Suddenly a huge man emerged, and came charging down the slope to meet us. He flung his arms round Lochlann, and wrestled him to the ground, insulting him loudly. I could see they were old friends. When they had got back on their feet, Lochlann introduced the big man to me. He had a long narrow face with a high nose, and stood with his head back, so that he looked down this nose at you. Lochlann called him Trigvi Camel, and he called Lochlann, Lief. I did not know what camel meant, so I asked the man, was it the name of his estate? He roared with laughter, and said no, it was a kind of animal like a giant sheep, that they used to carry silk and spices on the road to Ch'in. And looking at him, I could see that he did look like a giant sheep, so that I was hard put not to laugh myself.
Other folk gathered round, and there was much greeting and hugging and shaking of hands between them and Lochlann; and each was presented to me, and I was told their names, but I learned few of them then.
Ale was brought to us, and sweet cakes, and we sat on a bench outside the hall, watching the sun set over the mountains. Lochlann told Trigvi of the winter, of how he had been ambushed after he had left the previous autumn. Trigvi told of Jarl Olaf, and how he was trying to impose his will on the countryside. He stopped, and looked at Lochlann. Lochlann didn't answer. The silence between them grew, full of waiting. I was nervous, and so I broke it. "It is a fine place you have here -- you are fortunate."
"Ha! All of us who followed Lief to Ch'in are fortunate men! All this was bought with booty from that one trip. It was a trip to remember in song -- and the stories I could tell you..."
"I wouldn't listen to anything he might tell you about it", said Lochlann -- "the truth is the trip was a disaster from end to end. Surely, we brought home some wealth. But what it cost was not worth it. It was not a lucky trip, and not well lead."
"If that's what you call a disaster, by Thor, Lief! I'd love to go on a trip you thought was a success!"
"It was a disaster. Remember what we had planned to do?"
"Aye, we were to take slaves in the Russ, and trade them down to Miklagard for silks, and come back -- well, we did all that!"
"Have you forgotten that we made a bloody botch of securing the slaves when we went down the portage?"
"Well, so perhaps we lost a few..."
"And have you forgotten how we made ourselves sick on rotten meat in the black sea, so that when the storm caught us we could do nothing but drive before it?"
"No indeed! I'll never forget how sick I was. But..."
"And have you forgotten that we wrecked the ship on an unknown shore that no-one had ever heard of, where the folk spoke a language none of us knew? We were near enough taken for slaves ourselves then!"
"But that wasn't so bad. It wasn't more than a week before you were chatting away -- and then we got the job of guarding the caravan..."
"Two years marching across the backside of the world guarding a thieving turkic camel driver who had it planned to add us to his trade goods at the end of it!"
"But you should have seen his face when he found you weren't so drunk as he'd thought you were! My, that was some fight. I remember..."
"I'm amazed that you remember anything, you sot. You were by far too drunk to stand, let alone hold a sword. That was a fight I never thought to live through. And if I'd needed help from you, I surely never would have! Come -- it gets cold. Have your folk a fire in yonder yet?"
As the men got up to go inside, I slipped away to find a latrine. After I had relieved myself, I followed them in and found them sitting at a bench to the fire, their backs towards me. Trigvi was saying: "where did you get that fine woman you have by you?"
When I am telling you what folk said in this tale, you must remember that it is a good few years ago now, so that sometimes it's hard to remember exactly the words that were used. But I remember that in what he said, then, Trigvi might as easily have been asking where Lochlann had come by his belt buckle.
"There was a hamlet in the fjordland, west of here, where I leave my boat -- although it has been destroyed now, in the raiding; and she is the daughter of the man who was headman there."
"Well, I'm glad to see you're not sworn off the women, now, on top of everything else... tell me, you wouldn't be planning to sell her down at Altborg, would you? Because..."
I wanted to burst in, angrily, but fear held me quiet.
"No-one will be selling her, not at Altborg or anywhere else, not this year and not ever..."
Lochlann's voice was quiet; clear and cold as the north wind in winter. I had never heard him so before, but I could see Trigvi had. He stumbled hurriedly into words -- "I misunderstood, Lief. She is your wife?"
"Yes."
I was -- shocked -- Lochlann and I had never talked of wedding; and I had never thought of myself as even possibly important enough to him to be more than a passing thing. I went up and put one of my hands on each of his shoulders. He crossed his arms and took each of my hands in one of his, and went on talking with Trigvi. I was too busy in thought to pay attention.
If Lochlann chose to sell me in Altborg -- or anywhere else -- there was nothing I could do about it. My father had never said plainly, even in private, whether or not he thought me a slave. My mother was a slave, that was not doubted; so my freedom was in his gift. And now he was dead, so that even if I had any kin, it would be in their interests to say I was a slave, so that they should not have responsibility to me. Lochlann could claim me for his slave, and that would be that. And if I were a slave, even if he did not sell me, I was vulnerable, for a slave has little value, and forcing a slave -- even killing one -- is not a great crime. When Lochlann claimed I was his wife, he was protecting me, because it is the custom among the warriors of the North to take only one wife, and to see offence against her as offence against himself. Also, if I was his wife, I was one of his clan, and would have the protection of his clan even if he were to die; and I had realised by now that Lochlann's clan was a powerful one.
I had never before known Lochlann lie -- but unless he really thought of me as his wife, that was a lie. I did not know whether what he had said was just a trick to protect me, or whether... It mattered to me. I wanted to believe that he liked me well enough to want to have me by him always -- but I did not have the confidence...
The evening dragged by. Trigvi was a good host, offered fine food and good ale, made jokes, told wild stories -- most of them for me, about Lochlann -- and paraded for us his current crop of bed-slaves, pointing out their individual qualities with the unashamed pleasure of a herdsman showing off his mares, while I looked into their shuttered eyes and saw the fate I might have had. The other folk of the place were also merry, and their pleasure at having Lochlann back could be seen. So that we had to sit through a long time of singing and tale telling and jesting, before folk wearied.
At last Lochlann and I were alone in a beautifully appointed bed-place, curtained with hangings from the altar of some Christmen's church. I knelt on the eiderdown quilt, still, erect, looking questions, aware that beyond the curtains were other ears. Lochlann paused in his undressing, stilled by my stillness, and his eye found mine.
"Kirsty, Kirsty -- I have failed you in so much. I would not fail you in this."
"Was it for my protection that you said it?"
"No... for my own enrichment..."
"Then why did you say it now, to him, not knowing that I could hear..."
"What if you had said no?"
In the morning, everyone that was there gathered around a table that was set up outside the hall for a daymeal of porrage with cream and sweet bannocks that were served with honey. When we had done eating, Trigvi said -- "you will be needing a horse for Kirsten, then?"
I said I had never ridden a horse, and thought that I would sooner walk. Lochlann asked Trigvi if he had a gentle horse that no-one would miss. Trigvi said that of course he could have the choice of every horse that was there, and they had a polite little squabble about it. Then they led me back through the pines to a railed paddock that was there, and in it about two dozen horses. They picked one out for me that Trigvi said was old, but quiet in her ways and steady. She was grey in colour, with a pale mane and tail. She seemed very large to me; she had a great fondness for carrots, which Trigvi had brought from the store. After she had had some carrots from me, and sniffed and huffed at me a little, she seemed quite happy with the idea of carrying me. I was not so sure about her!
Other folk came and sorted out horses, and there was much talking and milling around, and packing of saddlebags and bedrolls; and then seven of us -- all men except myself -- swung up onto horses, called farewells to the folk who were staying behind, and rode out through the gateway. Each of the others led a laden packhorse.
Riding was not at first comfortable, although that the horse was quiet and my saddle a good one. We rode east along the lakeshore all through that morning, and then crossed the river flowing out of it to ride across low hills into the next valley. The land was rich and green, with many steadings and villages. Now and again, we would stop at a steading, and there would be another great round of greetings, and there would be refreshments (very good), and then we would set out again. Each time, there were one or two more of us.
That first day riding, Lochlann rode by me, watching how I rode to see that I did not get too sore. But the next day, another man was riding with me, a well made man with greying hair, wearing broad plaid breeks and a silken sark like Lochlann's own under a fox-red mantle. He was called Eric of Betelheim. When I asked where was Betelheim, he said it was in Falestin, of course, where the white christ had come from. At this I suppose I must have gone a bit wide eyed, but he laughed, and said no, of course he didn't come from there; simply that he had been there with Lochlann (tho' he called him Lief), and that he had been dipped for the christ by the priests there.
He asked me many questions about myself, and where I had come from, so that at last I realised that he was set to find out about this new wife of Lochlann's. I said -- "You think much of him, don't you, all of you?"
"He is our captain. We've been with him -- some of us -- since he was a little shrimp of a lad who had nightmares, and was sick before and after every fight. He's led us through tighter places than we had any of us any right to come out of. He's led us to lands that no-one here has ever heard of. There isn't one of us who hasn't his darning in our hides, or his medicines in us. He's stood every night watch with us, and shared all the spoils with us. And in all that time and in all that fighting and travelling, he hasn't lost a man. Yes, we think much of him. There isn't a captain like him."
He paused for a while, while the horses moved on quietly, clopping and clinking through the white dust of the road, and the rich pasture went by on either side. Then he started to speak again.
"After he had left us, the company chose Trigvi to be captain. And Trigvi was a good captain, too. We went down to Novgorod a couple of times with Trigvi as captain, but it wasn't the same. The first trip we damaged the ship, so that there wasn't a lot of profit in it; and on the second trip we got the worst of a fight and lost four men. We had grown to think we couldn't be killed, and it was a shock. After that we realised we were all rich men now, and there was no need to go a-viking any more. So we got ourselves farms, and settled down. But we're still Lief's company."
As it gathered together down the dusty road, it was a fine company. They weren't young heroes any more, Lochlann's men. They were men in their full years, tall and broad and steady, and even -- one or two of them -- fat. They dressed in bright clothes, had fine gear, rode good horses. They told tall tales, full of jokes at each other, and sang old songs. They didn't boast or argue anything like so much as most men do.
We would always sleep at the stead of one or other of the company, and because these were not evenly spaced, so some days we were on the road shorter than others. On one of these days, after we had arrived early at a stead, someone brought out some practice swords made of oak, and soon they were stripped to their sarks and breeks and fighting mock battles all over the yard. I was surprised, because I hadn't ever seen grown men do this before. I asked Trigvi about it, and he said that when Lief was captain, he had made them do this every morning, even when they were at sea.
I watched carefully, and saw that though the men fought hard, it was rare that a man would be touched by his opponents sword. I asked Trigvi why this was. Were they not trying to hit each other? Trigvi laughed, and said, oh yes, they were trying. When you had been touched three times in a fight, you had lost. There was a bet on. When everyone had fought everyone else, the man who had lost least fights would collect the bet.
Trigvi was called away again to fight, and I saw that he fought gracefully for someone so big and clumsy seeming. Eventually the fighting was done, and they all came back, tired and sweating, to the benches by the hall. A man called Ulfjot seemed to have won, but as the others were congratulating him, someone called out that he hadn't won, because he hadn't fought Lief yet. So they swarmed around Lochlann, joking and calling on him to fight their champion.
At first he refused. Finally he said that he didn't fight with a sword any more, but if they could find him an oak pole the size of his staff, he'd see what he could do. At this there was much laughter. I had never heard of a man fighting with just a staff. Ulfjot said that if Lief was going to fight with a staff he would have to have help. Trigvi said he would help Ulfjot, and then Sverrir, a very big man. Lochlann laughed and said that that was enough, surely!
The staff was found. A wad of cloth was carefully bound round each end of it. Lochlann shrugged off his jerkin, and walked out into the yard. He found a place with the sun at his back, planted himself with his legs apart, and let the staff hang horizontal from his arms. The men about me were quiet, expectant. Ulfjot, Trigvi and Sverrir advanced towards him slowly, well spread out. They had found helmets and shields. Lochlann wore just his sark, his breeks, and boots. He stood quiet, waiting. It was just so he had stood that first night, when my father's men had come down out of the trees.
Suddenly Ulfjot and Sverrir charged him, from opposite sides; Trigvi came in from in front. It was hard to see everything he did with the staff, for much of it was very fast. Sometimes he would jab with one end of the pole or the other, towards someone's face or ribs. Sometimes he would slam upwards with an end, to catch a descending sword; or else swing the pole vertical, to stop a slash. Again he would slide his hands to one end of the pole, and swing it like a flail.
It was only moments before the end of the staff caught Sverrir square on the forehead, so that he was thrown backwards onto the ground. He rolled away from the fight, pulled off his helmet, and walked quietly back to us. The end of the pole, driving like an axe, took Trigvi on the wrist. His sword flew tumbling overhead. At once Lochlann's boot swung up and drove into his shield, as the staff swung vertical to stop a blow that Ulfjot was aiming at his other leg. Trigvi staggered and went down. He rolled back onto his feet, dropping his shield, and dove for his sword.
Left right left right! The ends of the staff rattled about Ulfjot's head, so that all he could do was make a cage of his raised sword and shield and back slowly away. Trigvi was almost upon the sword when Lochlann swung round, the pole sliding through his hands to its full extent. It hit the hilt cleanly, so that the sword drove through the air to strike the wall of one of the byres and fall into the dirt. Ulfjot strode forward, cutting at Lochlann's exposed back, but the swing of the pole came back round. He leapt to avoid it, but still it caught his foot so that he tumbled awkwardly. The pole swung vertical and drove down between his shoulder blades. Now Ulfjot got up and walked back to us.
That left Trigvi. Lochlann waited. Trigvi walked over and picked up his sword with his left hand. He held it out, low, to the side. He shuffled forward in a fighting crouch, balanced. Lochlann used the greater length of the pole to jab at him, like a tinker with a dancing bear. Folk laughed. Lochlann said something, and Trigvi laughed too, never taking his eyes off the staff. For all his weight, he kept dancing about beyond the reach of the pole, looking for a break. Then he dived in low under a swing of the staff, slicing for Lochlann's legs. The staff spun vertical and blocked him. Trigvi rolled frantically away, but Lochlann spun the pole and dropped it between his shoulderblades. Then he gave Trigvi a hand to his feet, and they came back, arms round one another's shoulders, laughing like children.
The men around me laughed and cheered.
We sat on the benches, drinking ale, the men talking about who had done well. Lochlann was looking at Trigvi's wrist, feeling it, and moving it about, while Trigvi made faces. Lochlann put some ointment out of his pack on the wrist, and started to strap it with a linen bandage. Trigvi said to me, how well did I do with my sword. I flushed and said I'd never tried. Why did I carry it then? I said that it was so that I could protect myself, if Lochlann and I were parted. Trigvi turned to Lochlann and said sharply that he should know I would be at more risk with it, if I didn't know how to use it, and that he should be shamed to let me carry it without teaching me. Then Lochlann was shamed, and wouldn't meet our eyes, mumbling that he didn't use a sword any more.
From then on, I had lessons every morning with Eric or Trigvi, using the wooden swords. They were good teachers, so that by the end of the journey there were times that I won a mock fight, which amused the company greatly. But I think Lochlann was never happy about it.
The land we were travelling through now was richer than any other I have seen. Wide pastures grazed herds of milch cattle, of horses -- few sheep, here. Broad fields grew oats, kale, flax, and many other crops that were strange to me. In orchards and around the steads, fruit trees were in blossom -- not just apples, but many other kinds that we can't grow here.
The land was rich in birds, too. The orchards rang with the bell voice of the cuckoos; swallows swirled and chittered round the halls and barns. Every morning we woke to the shouting of throstles; every evening we settled to the murmer of doves. Partridges would whirr up in droves from close by the road as we passed; a dozen kinds of duck sailed on the rivers.
The folk were well fed, their houses large and well built. The larger steads had strong defences. Many folk travelled the road with us, pedlars on foot with hand barrows or leading pack ponies, chapmen riding with strings of packhorses, and a handful of guards beside them; and many others. Many, like us, were heading for Altborg and the place of the Landesthing.
At last, one afternoon, we came over a ridge, and in the distance we could see a little conical hill on an island in a wide river. There were buildings on the top of the hill, and many more in a sprawl along the lower part of the island. I thought at once that this must be Altborg, and Lochlann, who was by me, said that it was so.
I thought we would ride straight there, that night, but instead we stopped at another stead. This stead had little defence, just a low paling; within it, there were a number of small round houses, unlike the long halls we had become used to. Among the round huts there was a church of the christmen's type, built of boards, and with a short tower that had a cross standing above its pointed roof. Behind it was a cherry orchard.
I knew Catriona at once, when I saw her. She was in the centre of the group of folk who gathered to meet us, a tall woman dressed in quiet grey. Her hair was the colour of flame, although there was grey in it; her face, although it had lines in it from living, was well shaped and fair. Her dress was very plain, of grey wool over a shift of white linen. Her shoulder brooches were of silver, and her keys hung from them on a silver chain. Her girdle was grey, like the dress, but finely embroidered. From it hung a chain of jet beads. You could see that she was as slim as I was then, and better shaped. Her skin was fine and white. I let my horse dawdle while others swung forward around me, shook my hair so that it fell a little across my face, and dismounted on the other side.
She was greeting Lochlann. She was not more than half a head shorter than he was, so that she would be my height or even a bit more. She spoke in the language of the north, but her voice had the soft, singing sound of the west of the world, which is pleasing to hear. She laid her hands on his shoulders, and raised her face for him to kiss. He did. He spoke to her in a quiet voice that had laughter and joy in it.
I felt like a child. She was his own age, someone who knew about the things he talked about. She was beautiful. I thought of my brown hair, which waves and won't hang straight no matter how I brush it, and my brown eyes and brownish skin, and my small breasts. I thought that, if he saw me beside her, he would not want to look at me again.
But then he was looking for me among the throng, and his voice came clear -- "Kirsten" -- and Eric took my horse's reins, so that there was nothing for it but to go up to them, in my dirty worn mans' clothing, and stinking of sweat, for we had not stopped long enough to wash clothes since Trigvi's. Even my face was dirty from the dust of the road, and my hair was dulled with dust, and tangled, too, with the breeze we'd been riding through. As I came up to them they looked so fine, like a king with his queen, and the scent from her clothes was of rose petals.
Lochlann told me who she was, and I said something in greeting, so that my voice sounded hoarse and graceless even to me. I looked at him, and then at her, and again at him. Then my eyes filled so that I had to blink and I turned away so they would not see. Someone put their arms around me and hugged me to them, and it was not Lochlann but Catriona.
I will not tell you what we talked about, she and I, that first time we met, except that in part we talked about Lochlann. She took me into her house, which was small, and was not the main place of the steading, while her folk looked after the men outside. The house was round; in it, there was a cot, a loom, a kist, a small table with a book on it and two candles. There was a hearth in the middle, and two stools by it; and round the walls was a tapestry showing the life of the christ. We sat on the stools and talked. One of her folk brought us in wine, and bread, and cheese, and radishes, and a pot of sweet herrings. Later, they brought in a bath, and bucket after bucket of hot water, till the bath was filled with it, and into the water she poured sweet oil of roses. She made to leave, then, but that I asked her not. And so she bathed me, as though she had been my mother, and I wept again for it came to me that if my mother had lived that I could have seen her, this was the age she would have been.
When I had been bathed and dried she took from the kist a fine shift like her own, which she gave to me, and I put on. She brushed my hair, saying how fair she thought it. At that I wept again, and told her how dull I thought it, and how I feared that, with all the maids there were about with hair the colour of bleached straw, or of gold, or fire, or even raven's wings, he would not stay by me. So she held me again, and comforted me. Then she looked in the kist again, and stopped, as if a thought had come to her. She bade me wait, and slipped out.
After a while, I heard her returning, with Lochlann. When they came to the doorway, Lochlann called out if they could come in, and I said yes, but in a small voice. I felt -- shy -- sitting there in but a shift, of him who had so often seen me naked. They ducked through the door curtain. Lochlann held a bundle, which he laid down on the kist. He bade me close my eyes, saying -- "I have a gown for you."
I stood still then, with my eyes closed, as clothes were put on me. I tried to guess what they were like. The gown rustled, and slid smoothly against my cheek and neck. Then the buckles were fixed, feeling neither heavy nor light. The girdle felt heavy, though, and something heavy and cold was put on my neck. Something was done to my hair. Then there were hands -- his hands -- on my shoulders, holding me, and he bade me open my eyes again. Catriona was in front of me, holding a mirror of polished silver, almost as big as a targe.
In the mirror I saw a king's daughter from a foreign land. She wore a gown that was of silk the colour of wine, except that in some places where the light caught it, it was the colour of bronze. It was fastened at her shoulders with two brooches of gold, shaped as dragons, each holding a ruby in its mouth (I did not know that they were rubies then. They were the first I had seen). About her waist was a girdle of heavy golden plates. About her neck was a torc of gold, made as a rope is made, twisted from strands of twisted strands, and each strand of gold wire a slightly different colour from any other. In her hair, which was a cloud the colour of polished hazel nuts, was something fine of gold wire and rubies. As I looked at her, Lochlann swung a cape of gold cloth about her shoulders. It was lined with fur that was white as new snow, and it was only when it tickled at my neck that I really believed that the woman in the mirror was me.
I turned to him. He was gazing at me as if he, too, was not sure if this was the person he knew. He kissed me gently. He said -- "there were shoes, too, among the things I brought back, but I fear that they won't fit you. Look, try them."
He showed me four pairs of women's shoes, of silk and of soft red leather, among a pile of other wonderful things, but all were too small for me. He sorted through the pile, and drew out two arm rings that matched the torc, and a finger ring with a ruby, and these he put on me. I thanked both of them. Lochlann led me out into the sun again, and when the men of the company saw me, they raised a great shout, so that I blushed almost to match the gown.
Then Lochlann said -- standing beside me in the sun, with the wind stirring at our hair, holding me by the hand he said -- "My friends, now that we are all together again, I want to tell you that this is Kirsten, who I would have for my wife, and as the only woman to me now and for ever more. Lassie, will you ... have me?"
I tried to find something clever to say, that would be memorable. Then I remembered that when there had been ceremonies that I had seen, it was often the way that folk answered back in the words that they have been given. And so I said -- "Lochlann, my good friend, I would have you to be my man, so that there is no other man for me now and for ever more. I will have you."
And then I kissed him, and the men cheered even more loudly than before, so that I knew that they had thought well of me. Lochlann said to them -- "So! Then as you are my men, so you are Kirsten's men from this time on. I ask you, will you each and all stand by her, and by the children we may have together, and protect her from all harm, even after I am dead?"
Once again, all the men shouted together, this time loudest of all. And after that Trigvi came up and kissed me and hugged Lochlann, and then it was Eric, and after that everyone else was gathered round wishing us well and clapping us on the backs. After that we ate. I cannot remember what the food was, but it seemed like a feast. Then Lochlann and I went back to Catriona's little house, and I took off the precious clothes, folding them carefully. But the torc and the armrings I did not take off. And then we lay together naked in her narrow cot, and he fucked me tenderly. And tho' again he was so gentle that the fires in my womb were neither roused nor quenched, yet the gentleness was so much a part of him that I felt a wave of love for him because of it.
In the morning, Lochlann asked me to put on my old clothes. When I was dressed he took me into an old woodshed, and there, under a pile of sticks and rubbish, opened a trap door. We went down and found a well made, dry cellar, in which there were two kists, a great one and a small one. He explained that this was his share of the profit from the trip to Ch'in. In the small kist was treasure of gold and jewels of all kinds. I was amazed, for until then I had not ever seen more than a few small things of gold; the torc that I was still wearing was the biggest golden thing I'd ever seen. Then we locked that kist again and turned to the larger. In it were rolls of silk. I saw all the rolls from which Lochlann's shirts had been cut, and the roll from which the gown had been made, but there were others besides. I unrolled one that was deep blue, embroidered with golden fishes and rose water-lilies, all beautifully done so that it looked almost as if they were alive. Lochlann held it up against me.
"You will need more than one gown."
"May I?"
He laughed, tucked it under one arm, locked the kist, gave me both keys, and led me back into the sunlight, carefully sweeping the litter back over the trap door.
When we came to where folk were sitting down to the daymeal, I found that many of the men had found gifts for me, and that was greatly moving; especially when I found that Trigvi had sat up most of the night to make the most beautiful shoes for me, after I had been angry with him the night before for leading me into a muddy place while I was still in my bare feet and the wonderful gown. Now I saw that he had done it to get a print of my feet, and so the shoes fit perfectly. They were of fine, soft leather, but the tops were covered in a red and gold silk that I knew he cut from a shirt I'd seen him wearing, that I think must have been his best one; and they had tiny gold buckles, that Eric had cast for them, himself working through the night to do it.
Catriona gave me three more shifts of new linen, and a plain woolen gown -- for she said, she was not wealthy like all these thieving ruffians, and also I would need simple clothes as well as the fine ones in the days to come. I thanked her for that, and went at once to change into the gown, for indeed a change of clean, plain clothing was just what I did need then!
We stayed at Catriona's that day, and we all used it to wash our clothing and prepare ourselves for the thing, the men taking turns to sit on a stool in the middle of the yard while someone else would trim their hair and beard -- all except Lochlann, who wouldn't let us tidy him up, but cut his hair as he always did, by pulling it up from his head in tufts, and cutting it off short with his little curved knife. Catriona did manage to give him a new sark she had sewn him from some of the silk from the treasure store, and I realised that she must have made all the other sarks he had, too.
All the horses were led down to a river that was nearby, and washed carefully, and the men ducked each other and threw water about till they were all reasonably clean. Then the horses were brushed down, their hooves oiled and their manes were plaited, with strands of coloured wool plaited into them. All the leather gear was polished, and the metal gear was burnished, till all over the yard were things glinting and winking in the sun so that our eyes hurt. After all this everyone was fairly sweaty again, so that the men all trooped cheerfully back down to the river to swim, and Catriona and I went up to her house to bathe again in hot, rose scented water.
The next morning, we rode down to the ferry at Altborg, and then north to the place of the Thing.
Copyright © Simon Brooke
1992-1996
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