As they walked back down the rock-strewn pasture, goats scattered before them, bleating. Voices rose from the fishing fleet drifting into shore; the foremost ship ground its keel into the shingle with a hoarse scrape.
Coming into the hold, they saw that preparations had begun for the Freyrscoming. Kindling was being unloaded from two wagons at the back of the hall; great logs, freshly cut, oozing with sap and the rich smell of forest damp. House thralls were carrying them in and stacking them in crisscrossed heaps, their shaven circles of timber ridged with age rings. Sawdust and splintered wood were trampled into the mud.
The hall was empty, its shutters thrown wide and the great roof tree standing stark in the dimness. They ran upstairs. Skapti thumped on the door of Wulfgar’s chamber and they went in.
The Jarl was sitting in a chair with a selection of swords spread over his knees and at his feet. A plump, sleek merchant with black, oily hair perched nervously on the bench.
“Skapti!” Wulfgar sprang up, sending weapons everywhere. “Now which of these do you think is the best?”
He gathered up a long heavy blade with a leather-bound grip and held it against another, shorter weapon with fine engraving along the blade. Jessa wandered to the fire.
“This one handles better, but the other is more…”
“Showy,” Jessa put in.
He tugged her hair gently. “That’s the word.”
Skapti took the swords and swung them one by one. “The plain one has better balance.”
“Ah, but the other,” the merchant said quickly, “is more fit for the Jarl. A fine sword, crafted in the south, beyond the Cold Sea. Hammered from finest twisted steel.”
“And a higher price.” Skapti grinned at Jessa.
“A little…”
“A lot, I’d say.”
The merchant frowned. “But the runes on the blade have the properties of protection. No enemy could touch the Jarl.”
Skapti tossed the swords onto the bed. “Well, buy that one then, Wulfgar. With your skill you might need it.”
Wulfgar glared at him. “Sometimes I think you forget who I am.”
“Not me,” the skald snapped. “I’ve watched your back in too many battles.”
For a long, amused moment Wulfgar gazed at him. Then he gave his lazy smile and leaned back in his chair, turning graciously to the merchant. “As my friend points out in his poetic way, a Jarl should be dependent on his war band, not on sorcery. I will buy the plainer sword, at the price you mentioned. Now if you go down to the hall, Guthlac will give you something to eat.”
Recognizing his dismissal, the merchant gathered up his swords, wrapping each in fine oiled cloth. Skapti opened the door and watched him stagger carefully down the steps.
“Smooth as his blades,” he muttered.
Wulfgar laughed and poured out a cup of wine.
Jessa sat opposite him. “Wulfgar, I want to tell you something. That thief who stole the silver. I’ve seen him. He’s here at the hold.”
He stared at her in surprise, eyes dark. “Here? Jessa, you should have said.”
“I only found out last night.” She flicked a look at Skapti, who shrugged. “I saw Vidar go into one of the houses here. The thief opened the door to him.”
“Vidar!”
“I’m sure it was the same man.”
He gazed at her thoughtfully, fingering the fine gold neck ring at his throat. “There must be some mistake. Vidar can’t know this.”
“Probably not. But we should ask him.”
Wulfgar turned to the window, then leaned out, his hands on the sill. He called below for someone to send Vidar Freyrspriest up and then wandered back to the fire.
“Well, if your thief is here we’ll get our silver back at least.” He smiled at her. But she knew he was puzzled.
After a few moments there was a tap on the door and Vidar came in, frost melting on his coat. In daylight the scar on his face was grayer, drawn tight. “You wanted me?”
“Sit down,” Wulfgar said.
He sat, glancing quickly at their faces. “What is it? Is something wrong?”
Wulfgar put one foot on the bench and leaned over him. For a moment Jessa sensed his authority, hidden behind that easy, lazy manner. Vidar looked tense, as if he felt it too. But Wulfgar spoke quietly.
“You went to a house last night.”
“A house?”
“Here in the hold.”
“I watched you,” Jessa put in. Impatiently she stood up. “Look, the man who opened the door to you was the one who stole money from me in Hollfara two days ago.”
Vidar stared at her. “Snorri? Impossible!”
Furious, she glared back. “I know what I saw!”
Vidar stroked his narrow gray beard. “I’m sure you think so, Jessa, but I can’t believe this. Snorri used to be a bondsman of mine. He bought his freedom years ago. He lives here now, and part owns one of the fishing boats. He’d never thieve. For one thing, he hasn’t the wits.”
“The only way to settle it,” Skapti remarked, “is to send for him.”
“Of course.” Vidar nodded and went to stand, but Wulfgar pushed him back and stalked to the door. They heard him shouting orders down the stairs.
“If this is true,” the priest murmured to Jessa, “I will personally see to it that every coin is paid back.”
She nodded, gave him a tight smile, but she knew quite well he thought she was mistaken. She glanced at Skapti but he seemed lost in his own thoughts, so she turned to the fire and watched Vidar from the corner of her eye. What if he did know? What if he and the thief were accomplices? She had to admit, it seemed unlikely. And yet she remembered the way he had crept between the houses, stepping back into shadow when that woman passed.
Wulfgar came back. “I’ve sent for him. Take some wine, Vidar. Is everything ready for tomorrow night?”
Vidar nodded. “The kindling is here, for the fires. The ritual meats for the feast are ready; a boar is being slaughtered tomorrow. The image of the god has reached the village of Krasc, just over the hill. He’ll be brought here by boat. Everything for the ceremony is ready.” As he spoke he poured wine carefully into a cup. One red drop fell on his fingers and he sucked it away. “I intend to spend this afternoon alone in the hills, preparing myself, speaking to Freyr in my heart. The omens are good. He’ll bring us a good crop and a good harvest this year.”
Wulfgar nodded, then turned as his steward, Guthlac, came in.
“The man Snorri is in the hall. He was found on the wharves.”
Wulfgar swept out and the others followed. They clattered down the stairs, through the tapestries and into the hall.
A man waited, a warrior discreetly behind him.
“That’s not him,” Jessa said at once.
Behind her, Vidar said, “But it is, Jessa. This is Snorri, the man I went to see. His child suffers a small ailment, which I have medicines to ease.”
“It’s not the man who opened the door,” she said icily.
The fisherman glanced nervously from face to face. He was small, yes, with straggly brown hair, but it wasn’t the same man. She knew it! And that meant Vidar was lying.
Calming herself, she turned to him. He stood at Wulfgar’s shoulder, his face slightly puzzled, watching her carefully, the scar dragging at the corner of his mouth. “I’m sorry, Jessa, but it is,” he murmured.
There was a tense silence. Then Wulfgar took her arm. “Anyone can make a mistake, Jessa,” he said gently. He jerked his head at the fisherman. “You can go.”
Relief lit the man’s eyes. He scurried to the door.
“Wait!” Jessa took a few steps after him. “Vidar Paulsson came to see you last night?” she said quietly.
The man nodded hurriedly. “My son is ill. Vidar knows runes, has things that help....”
“No one else lives with you?”
“No one,” he muttered uneasily.
“Are you sure?”
He looked away, faint
sweat on his lip. “No one.”
She was silent a moment. Then she said, “Thank you.”
As the man hurried out, Wulfgar said, “Don’t worry about it, Jessa. After all, it was dark, and this whole thing was on your mind. We’ll find the man, I promise you.”
She gripped her hands into fists and turned with a smile. “You’re right. It was just a mistake.” She crossed to Vidar and gave him a bright glance. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have doubted your word.”
“Not at all,” he said, rubbing his stubbly beard. “Not at all.”
As she left them talking she wondered if she had convinced him. It was important she did. Because if he was lying—and he was—she would have to find out why without him knowing, or even suspecting her. As she turned, before the tapestry fell behind her, she saw Vidar and Wulfgar talking about the feast—they seemed to have put it out of their minds already. But Skapti was gazing after her thoughtfully.
Eight
The company came to its feet.
It was late that night, very late, when the uproar began.
Jessa was awake in an instant, hearing the doors crash open below, the shout and murmur of raised voices in the hall. She snatched the knife from her belt, tugged on coat and boots, and ran outside, straight into Skapti.
“What is it?”
“I don’t know. Where’s Wulfgar?”
“Here.” He was behind them, looking sleepy, some of his men clustered about him. “What’s going on?” he snapped. “Are we being attacked?”
A thrall raced up the stairs. “There are men below, in the hall. Strangers. They’ve come a long way—they want to speak to you.”
“At this hour!” Wulfgar gave Skapti his sword and ran a hand through his tangle of hair. “Won’t it keep?”
“They insist. They seem … terrified.”
For a moment Wulfgar stood still. Then he put the man aside gently and walked down the stairs, his bodyguard about him. Jessa followed, curious.
The hall was almost in darkness. A few torches still guttered at one end, and the only fire that had not gone out was being banked up with dry wood so that it spit and crackled and gave little light. Argument hummed in the great stone spaces; the war band who normally slept there were on their feet, surrounding a group of about five strangers.
Wulfgar pushed through to them. “All right,” he said wearily. “I’m the Jarl. Who are you?”
The men fell silent; they glanced at one another. Finally one of them spoke. “Farmers, lord, some of us; others are freedmen. We come from the Harvenir district, about two days’ journey from here to the north.”
“And?”
The man threw an imploring look at his companions. The thrall had been right, Jessa thought; these men were more than frightened.
“Lord.” The man grabbed Wulfgar’s arm. The bodyguard jerked forward but he waved them back. “Lord, speak to your watchmen! Double the guard on the ships and the approaches to the hold!”
“Why?”
“Do it, please!” The man was sweating. “Please! The thing may be close behind us.”
His words rang in the flame-lit, shadowy spaces; the men of the hold felt amulets and thorshammers discreetly.
“Thing?” the Jarl said quietly.
“A creature, a great troll, who knows what it is! Something that kills without mercy.”
The silence was deep. Then Wulfgar turned easily and murmured names, commands. Some men left quickly, still consumed with curiosity.
Jessa beckoned two of the house thralls. “These men need food,” she said, “and some hot, spiced ale. Hurry with it.”
The strangers stared at her, restless, unfocused.
“Sit down,” Wulfgar said to them. “Bring those benches here, to the fire.”
The five men sat silent, flames licking their spread fingers. They seemed spent, worn out with weariness and some heavier dread that dried up their words. When the food came, they ate quickly, among the whispers of the war band.
Wulfgar was patient. When the ale was poured, he came and sat on the bench opposite them, leaning forward.
The spokesman had recovered a little. He shook his head, his face haggard. “Forgive me… Jarl … the way I spoke…”
“Forgotten,” Wulfgar said. “Now tell me what has happened.”
Jessa picked up a blanket from the straw and threw it around her shoulders. The hall was a great darkness behind her.
“My name is Thorolf of Harvenir,” the man said wearily. “These are my neighbors. Karl Ulfsson, Thorbjorn the Strong and his sons. We came to warn you.”
“Of what?”
The man gripped his hands together tightly. “We don’t know,” he whispered. “None of us have seen it clearly. Glimpses. Movements in the snow. Above all, prints and tracks. It must be huge, ferocious, an evil sending.”
“A bear?” somebody said.
Thorolf shook his head doubtfully. “It thinks,” he said quietly.
Jessa glanced at Skapti. His face was alert against the flame light. Beyond him Vidar was listening too.
“Two days ago,” the farmer said, “one of my bondsmen, a strong reliable man called Brand, went out to look for some stragglers from the reindeer herd. By nightfall he hadn’t returned. We feared some accident; the snow is still deep up there in the high pastures, and there are crevasses.... In the morning, as soon as it was light, I took men and dogs to look for him.”
He rubbed his face wearily. “It took us all morning to find him. What there was left of him.”
There was utter silence in the hall. His voice sounded very small when he spoke again.
“In a wide snowfield we found marks, blood, a smashed ski. Something had been dragged to a scatter of trees. The dogs wouldn’t go near, but we did. You can imagine how it was.... We buried him and hurried home. At first we thought, like you, that some bear had had him, some wolves, but when we saw the prints—”
“What were they like?” Skapti interrupted.
“Too big. A long foot with five splayed toes. Almost human, but … clawed.” After a moment he went on. “At the farm we brought the cattle indoors, shuttered the windows, barred the doors. The weather closed in at dusk; snow fell thickly, and the wind roared and howled. All night strange noises moved and shuffled around the house, snuffling, banging, scratching, as if some great beast was out there. We sat awake, all of us, my wife, my children, the men armed with axs. Once it tore and shoved at the door; the whole thing shuddered. No one dared sleep; we kept the fire banked up; the room was heavy with smoke. Even the cattle were still, as if they smelled it out there, the thing that prowled....” He glanced around at their attentive faces. “I never want to see another night like that. Finally morning came. Things seemed quiet; we dug ourselves out. Prints were everywhere. The byre had been smashed open, clawed apart. Snow had frozen everything, white and hard.”
He paused, and Wulfgar said, “But you didn’t see it?”
“No. Just the footprints. But since then, there have been other times.” He drank, as if parched, and the man beside him leaned forward, the one called Thorbjorn, a great black-bearded man.
“It was at my farm too. Two goats vanished; there’s no trace of them. The dogs howling in their chains. Karl here lost reindeer, sheep, a dog. None of us dare go out, master! Our children can hide indoors but men have to tend the flocks; spring is coming....”
“I understand that,” Wulfgar said quietly, “but you say it thinks?”
Thorolf raised his head. “Yes.”
Jessa stepped closer to the fire. The cold at her back made her shiver; Skapti eased aside for her.
“We set a trap,” the farmer explained, “at Karlsstead. We dug a pit in the floor of a byre and covered it with loose sticks and straw. A goat was tethered at the back. For a bear, that would have been unlikely to fail, don’t you think?”
Several men nodded.
“If you were careful,” Vidar murmured.
“We were careful.”
/> “So what happened?” Jessa urged.
Thorolf looked at her as if he had only just noticed her. “For two nights, nothing. Then on the third, a night of silent snowfall, Karl’s youngest daughter opened the corner of the shutter and looked out. She says she saw a shape moving in the drift, glimmering. A big, pale shadow.”
“It still could have been a bear.”
“It could. But in the morning the goat was gone. Neither hair nor bone of it remained. The covering over the trap was still in place. Instead the planks from the back had been torn wide. And, masters, the child said the shape carried something squirming under its arm.”
They were all silent. Wind creaked through the rafters high up in the hall; the fires crackled loudly. What sort of bear carried its prey away like that? Jessa wondered. Wulfgar glanced at Vidar, his face edged with firelight.
“What do you think?”
“A bear can be cunning,” the gray man said slowly, fingering the scar at his lip.
“But like that?”
“If not a bear, then what?”
No one answered. No one wanted to put words on it.
“Has it been about in daylight?” Wulfgar asked. He glanced at Skapti. “They say there are things—trolls, snow beasts, mere dwellers....”
The skald shrugged thin shoulders. “In sagas, yes. Things that throw a shadow on the heart.”
“Jarl,” Thorolf interrupted, “whatever it is, we need help. One man is dead already.”
Wulfgar nodded. He brooded for a moment, then said, “Men will ride back with you. Tomorrow is the Freyrscoming. After that, I’ll come myself.”
“You don’t understand.” The farmer put the cup down and gripped his big fingers desperately together. “I haven’t explained myself well. I knew I wouldn’t.... I said the creature thinks. It plots. It’s journeying with a purpose, not just scavenging here and there. We plotted its progress through our lands; it moves on, always south. Hard terrain doesn’t stop it.” He looked up. “We rode here swiftly, on horseback, without stopping. The thing walks, hunts, sleeps maybe, but it won’t be too far behind us.”
Wulfgar stared at him. “What do you mean, behind you?”