“If I might speak, my lord?” Eirik rose to his feet, golden hair glinting in the lamplight, wolfskin proud on his broad shoulders. “There are those of us who have known of this plan since early days. Your kinsman here is a fine leader, and his vision both noble and stirring. There are many good men who will want to be part of it: more than he can take, in truth. Supporting this venture would bring you great honor. Not to speak of a very handy base in the west.”
“Mmm.” Magnus was thinking hard.
“And how do you plan to pay for all this?” demanded Thorvald Strong-Arm, scowling at Ulf. “A knarr, a fine longship to be constructed at considerable speed, best breeding stock, the services of expert men? Did you find a hoard of troll silver when you journeyed north?”
Ulf looked at him. “I can pay,” he said quietly. “I have made my decision, and I will leave these shores with or without Jarl Magnus’s blessing. My father is dead. To journey to these isles was his dream, his obsession. On his death, my father’s lands became mine, and I have sold them. I will not return there. It has been a place of much unrest, of strife and sorrow. Now it belongs to another man. And so, I can pay.”
After that, nobody said anything for a while. Eyvind glanced across to the place where Somerled sat, but Somerled was no longer there. Turning back, he caught Margaret’s eye. She looked over to the doorway, back at Eyvind, moved her head a little. The message was clear enough. You’d best go after him, since I cannot.
Eyvind excused himself politely and made his way out. Clouds veiled the moon; the yard was in darkness. A dog sniffed around the doorway, lured by the smell of roast meat. A stone flew through the air, hitting it squarely on the rump; the dog squealed and bolted. Following the stone’s flight back, and hoping the next target would not be himself, Eyvind made his way to the steps that led up to the grain store. Somerled stood there in the dark, hurling stones at the ground now, hard enough to make them bounce. He did not stop as Eyvind approached.
“Somerled—”
“Go away.”
He’d heard that tone before, long ago, and had learned a lesson: not to ask what was wrong. Instead, he seated himself on the steps, saying nothing at all, and after a while Somerled ran out of stones and sat down beside him.
“So,” said Somerled after a considerable silence, “what do you think of this fine Ulf, and his grand plans to build a new home in the fair realms of light? Does it inspire you?”
“It seemed not unreasonable, the way he explained it,” Eyvind said cautiously. “A good place, with opportunities. But—”
“But, ever so slightly regrettable that he has sold my birthright to fund his dreams? Oh well, never mind. My mother was no more than a concubine, and my father treated her like dirt. Why should I expect any better?” His voice was not quite steady. In the dim light from the hall doorway, Eyvind could see his ashen pallor and his tight-clenched hands.
“Come on, now,” Eyvind protested. “Ulf is your brother. Surely—”
“That’s the trouble with you, Eyvind. You don’t listen. I’ve told you before, Ulf despises me. I’m no more than an embarrassment to him; he’s never known what to do with me. Well, he’s solved that problem now. Sold my father’s lands, all of them, no thought of any share for his father’s other son, and he’s off over the sea where he’ll never have to be reminded again that he has a brother. Neat. Tidy. Only one little loose end, really.”
“I don’t like to hear you talk like this,” Eyvind said. “You must be wrong. Have you spoken to Ulf of this? He must have provided for you.”
“As I said.” Somerled’s voice was tighter now, threatening to slip from his hard-won control. “You judge all men by your own measure. Very unwise, Eyvind. It’ll cause you grave trouble some day.”
Eyvind drew a deep breath. “Somerled?” he ventured.
“What?” The word was like a whip crack.
“Are you sure you’re not jumping to conclusions because you are angry with Ulf? I did think…I thought perhaps…well, with the wedding, you know—”
“Thinking doesn’t suit you, Eyvind. You’ve never had a talent for it. What can you mean? You believe I am jealous?”
At least Somerled was talking, though keeping up the conversation was a little like making one’s way across hot coals. It was ever thus when Somerled was upset. His way of dealing with hurts was to lash out, to use his tongue as his weapon. To be his friend, close by in times of trouble, was to invite wounds. Helping Somerled was a special kind of battle.
“It seemed to me you had grown fond of Margaret, and that today’s festivities might have upset you.”
“Fond.” It was a good attempt at a scathing tone.
“It seemed to me you might have preferred her for yourself. She likes you; you have a lot in common. I imagine that makes it hurt more.”
“You’d better go on, since you have decided to explain me to myself. What did you think would happen, that I would step up to Margaret and suggest she choose a man who has no better inheritance than his own wits? Ulf is his father’s son, the Jarl’s kinsman. He’s wealthy. He’s building a ship. Ulf has hopes and dreams; men speak of him with respect. Fondness is no basis for marriage, Eyvind. I would think less of Margaret if she chose me, for to do so would be the act of a fool.”
There was a silence. It was as if years slipped away, and they were alone in the woods again, in the immensity of the dark. Nobody cares, Somerled had said. Nobody cares what happens to me.
“You had high and noble aspirations,” Eyvind said quietly. “You impressed me, so strongly did you believe in yourself. A boy who would be a king. When you first said that, you shocked me. Yet you convinced me it would be so. I still see that strength, and so does Margaret, I believe. Ulf has hurt and angered you. But you still have friends, Somerled, and you still have a path ahead of you. You are clever and able; sometimes it seems to me you move like moonlight, too quick and subtle to follow. You say Ulf has hopes and dreams. What about your own dreams?”
“For my brother, this voyage is a new beginning.” Somerled’s tone was bleak. “For me, it represents something rather different: my final repudiation by my own kin. Forgive me if I find it somewhat beyond me to summon a mood of confidence in my future.” He spat on the ground at their feet.
“We are too solemn, perhaps,” Eyvind said wearily. “Will you come to the drinking hall with me? One can at least seek the oblivion of strong ale, when all else fails.”
“Spoken like a true Wolfskin,” said Somerled. “And what act of friendly generosity comes next? Do you plan to share your whore with me, so I can look for consolation between her open thighs?”
It was all Eyvind could do not to hit him. He sprang to his feet, unable to speak for anger, and strode off toward the settlement. A pox on Somerled; he wasn’t worth the trouble.
“Eyvind?”
He halted, but did not turn.
“I was joking, man. Come on, I’ll drink with you.”
“You try me hard sometimes,” Eyvind growled.
“I’m sorry.” Somerled scrubbed a hand across his cheek. “You do rather leave yourself open to it. Now let’s find some good ale, shall we? That was the best suggestion I’ve heard all night.”
FOUR
It became apparent soon enough that Somerled was at least partly right about his brother. Questioned directly as to what provision had been made for Somerled, Ulf replied curtly that an amount of silver had been set aside, sufficient to help the boy get on his feet, so to speak. Asked further, would his brother be included in the expedition, Ulf replied no. Somerled was not a creature of voyages and forays, of hardships and challenges. He had always preferred the court; he would rather make runes and poems than journey across the ocean to carve out new territory. Let him remain at court, then, and make a living as skald or law speaker, since he was apt for either calling. And, if he tired of Rogaland, the funds available to him would allow travel, to a limited extent. Did not the Jarls and chieftains of the north welco
me men of learning? Somerled would do well enough. With that, Ulf made it clear the subject was closed, and turned to what was foremost in his mind: the building of a ship.
Jarl Magnus had quickly seen the wisdom in Ulf’s offer of a safe harbor out to seaward, and had given his full approval for his kinsman’s bold venture. Perhaps he saw no other alternative: Ulf’s vision had captured the imagination of men from all parts of Rogaland, far more than the expedition could reasonably include. Magnus was heard to comment that Ulf’s grasp of strategy was impressive, and his ability to make his dream a reality truly inspiring. The fleet would sail with both Magnus’s personal blessing and his financial backing, as well as carrying a number of his own close retainers among its complement of fighting men.
The work began. Timber came from the north, great lengths of it already well prepared, reflecting Ulf’s talent for taking calculated risks. Only the oldest oaks could provide the massive pieces required for the vessel’s keel and mast blocks. The wood was well seasoned, and supple from storage in marsh water. In addition to these forest giants there were many trunks of smaller size, and as soon as these were unloaded Ulf’s shipwrights began to instruct a veritable army of workers, both freemen and thralls, in the delicate use of axe and adze to shape sweetly curved strakes and strong, resilient ribs. The floorboards were fashioned from pine: these would not be nailed down, but left free to be lifted as required for bailing or storage. Men wove caulkings from wool and horsehair; others worked on the oars, the pale pine wood shaped to a graceful taper, the lengths graded so they would strike the water as one, for all the curve of the ship’s side. It was a full winter’s work. Sails were woven in bold stripes of white and red, and a master wood-carver labored long hours over a great piece of oak heart, fashioning the dragon’s head that would adorn the prow. The carver’s apprentices worked a fine eagle mask on the tiller.
As the great task unfolded, even the most skeptical members of Jarl Magnus’s court were captivated. The vessel surpassed any they had seen before. She was massive as a great whale, yet sleek as an otter. Ulf named her the Golden Dragon.
There were fifteen benches; a crew of thirty oarsmen would be required, and five or six more to perform the multiplicity of other tasks: bailing, handling the sails, fending off attackers. And they’d need a crew for the knarr, which would bear the women and children, the thralls, the stock, and the best part of the supplies. Ulf watched the longship grow, strake overlapping delicately curved strake, oar ports neatly covered with little round shutters, each carven with its own small motif, for the pair of fellows who specialized in this field of work liked to add their own touch. Some were runic; such a vessel should bear an acknowledgment to the gods on whom her safety in open seas must depend. But there were little creatures too: a dog, an owl, a beaver; and one or two carvings of men and women who were—how could one put it?—at play, one might say. One hoped these would not prove too much of a distraction for the oarsmen.
There was work for many folk that winter, from the smiths who turned out rivets and nails to the women who wove the spruce-root lashings to fasten the hull’s planking to the ribs. This ship would move under the ocean’s hard caress, she would shudder and yield and remain whole under the fiercest embrace of the storm. Above the waterline, they used nails.
There came a time when the Golden Dragon was close to ready. Now a team of men came with bright paints, and turned the savage figurehead into a masterpiece of red and yellow, the crest and eyes picked out in gold leaf; the tiller received a similar decoration, and a handsome set of shields was prepared to match, though these would adorn the rim-rail only when the ship was at rest; while she crossed open sea, they would be stored away for safety. Ulf sent a man to arrange supplies of dried fish, casks of cheese, flasks of oil, and sacks of nuts and apples. There was a constant smell of bread baking, hard bread that would store a while. Ulf sent another man to check on the stock he had bought. It was hard to believe, but spring was almost here, and soon the expedition would be ready to depart.
The knarr arrived, an ungainly, blockish sort of craft, built principally for strength. She could travel long distances under sail alone, her master told Ulf as they inspected the vessel where she lay at anchor in Freyrsfjord. She required only a small crew, and this he had already, for all his men had volunteered for the voyage, provided the pay was good enough. He’d best take crew and boat together, the master advised Ulf, since the men knew the knarr better than a husband knows his wife. Women and children? Yes, he could carry them as well, though it wouldn’t be comfortable. Cattle? They’d need to talk about that. Now, about the pay again…
Eyvind was down by the water, helping haul the new ship’s mast blocks into place. The crew of the knarr had come ashore; they would find lodgings in the settlement. Among them was a fellow who seemed somehow familiar, though Eyvind could not quite place him. He was broad-cheeked, and sported a beard as red as his hair; he had a hard, brooding sort of look about him, the look of a man all too ready to find new enemies. And yet—and yet Eyvind’s memory was of someone open-faced and friendly. He thought—he almost thought…
“Sigurd!” Eyvind called, sure now. “Sigurd Gudmundsson! What brings you here to the south?”
The red-haired man turned slowly to look at him. There was no sign of recognition, not a flicker. Still, the more Eyvind looked, the more certain he became.
“Forgotten me already?” he joked. “I’m Eyvind Hallvardsson, the same Eyvind you grew up with. Many’s the time we wrestled together, or swam races across the Serpent’s Neck. It’s good to see you. We didn’t know what had become of you after you left my mother’s longhouse.”
The other man looked back at him, eyes carefully blank. “You’ve made a mistake,” he said, and turned away.
Later, Eyvind asked another of the knarr’s crew who the fellow was, for he did not think he had been wrong. The crewman laughed. “Him? Only name he goes by is Firehead, and there’s more than one reason for that. You don’t want to cross that fellow when he’s in his cups. Why do you ask?”
“Nothing,” Eyvind said. “He reminds me of someone I once knew, that’s all. Someone from home.”
“Didn’t think Firehead had a home,” the man grunted. “Been with us a long while. Two or three years at least. Odd sort of fellow. Good worker, though. Strong.”
Eyvind made no further comment, though he thought he was right. Still, if Sigurd did not want to know him, that was Sigurd’s business. Meanwhile, there was Somerled to worry about. Somerled was behaving oddly. He appeared to have abandoned gaming and poetry and music, and instead could be seen restlessly pacing the halls. Often he watched his brother, or his brother’s wife, with a look in his eye that filled Eyvind with a deep unease.
Before the ships set sail, Eirik went north to Hammarsby to bid his mother farewell. Thinking it was well past time for Somerled to be away from court for a little, Eyvind suggested the two of them go too, and Somerled agreed in the manner of a man who cares very little about anything.
The farm seemed different, smaller. His mother had white streaks in her blond hair. And Eirik greeted the thrall-woman, Oksana, with a kiss on the lips, in front of everyone, and went indoors with one towheaded child on his shoulders and two others holding his hands, while Oksana carried the newest baby. Many things had changed. Halla was married and gone. Thorgerd was still there, quite fat now, bustling about with cooking pots and glancing at Eyvind under her lashes.
They did not stay long. On the last day, Eyvind and Somerled went up into the woods under lowering skies, and found the tree house they had made one summer’s day long ago. It was still sturdy enough, though something had nested in one of the corners, and the ropes had begun to rot. On the bole of the great oak, the runes Somerled had carved were as clear as the day he made them.
“Two brothers made this house,” said Eyvind. “See, I remember. Somerled carved these runes. And here below, my own name: Eyvind.”
Somerled nodded. “Would you be
content,” he asked, “if this were all you left behind you for folk to remember? A few markings high on a tree, the only sign that you lived your span in the world?”
Eyvind stared at him, not sure he understood. “No, of course not,” he said. “I hope I will be remembered, for a little at least, as a brave man, one who served Thor and fought for the Jarl with as much courage and skill as he could. I would like to be remembered for that. What about you?”
Somerled said nothing. He stared ahead of him, his expression unreadable.
Suddenly Eyvind was impatient. “Odin’s bones, Somerled,” he said, “what is it you want? To please your brother? To go on this voyage with him? To forget him and go your own way? One thing is certain: you have lost the strong will you showed as a boy, when first we sat here together, and you helped me make my name on the wood. I thought then you were a man who could do whatever he wanted, and you made it clear what you would be. But now, you seem to me—lost.” The flow of words ceased. Eyvind waited for the scathing response. No doubt Somerled would tell him to stop trying to think, since he was so bad at it. But Somerled remained silent.
“Somerled?” Eyvind ventured after a while. “I hope I didn’t offend you. I want to help, if I can.”
“You can’t help. Nobody can. Shall I explain it to you? Ulf doesn’t want me to go. He wishes to be rid of me. And he’s right. I dislike voyages of discovery, I don’t enjoy getting cold and wet, the idea of living in some outpost surrounded by savages doesn’t appeal at all. But my brother’s voyage was purchased with what was mine. I should go. He owes it to me to let me go.”
“I doubt if he’s even aware you want to,” Eyvind said carefully. “Have you asked him?”
“I don’t need to ask. He will not take me.”