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A moment later, people were crowding in. Gunnar Ingolfsson filled the doorframe, a thickset, sandy-bearded man in a heavy wolfskin cloak. After him came a tall, pale girl. A flustered Gudrun came forward to greet them, wiping her hands on her apron. And the last to come in…
Hilde blinked. In walked a boy who made Arnë look like an overgrown, ruddy-faced farmhand. He wore his fine cloak with a confident swagger. Long golden hair tumbled over his shoulders and down his back.
Harald Silkenhair? He’s like a young hero from a saga.
“He’s just like a prince from a fairy tale,” Sigrid breathed. “Hilde, look, he’s even got a sword!”
Eirik struggled, kicking Sigrid with his bare toes till she put him down. He ran forward, a sturdy little figure in a nightshirt, blocking Harald’s way, and gazed up in wide-eyed admiration. “Show me your sword,” he demanded.
Harald’s lips quirked, and he went down on one knee. He slid his sword a few inches out of the sheath. “Meet Bone-biter. No!” he warned, as Eirik’s chubby hand went out. “She’s sharp.Touch the handle.”
Rather uneasily Hilde watched Eirik stretch out a finger. The hilt of the sword was wrapped with silver wire. “Shiny,” said Eirik, his voice soft with awe. He looked up at Harald. “Did you cut off the twoll’s head?”
Harald frowned. Hilde cut in. “It’s just a story he’s been listening to. He thinks—”
“He thinks you’re a prince who killed some trolls,” blurted Sigrid, blushing.
Harald ran the sword back into its sheath. “Not trolls,” he said, laughing, “not trolls.” He leaned forward and ruffled Eirik’s hair. “When you’re a man, maybe you’ll have a sword like this.” And he got to his feet.
“Wasn’t that nice of him?” Sigrid whispered to Hilde.
“I…suppose so,” said Hilde slowly. Sigrid was right. It was very nice of this young warrior to take notice of a small boy. So why should she feel so uncomfortable about it? Meet Bone-biter. Little boys always worshipped heroes, didn’t they? What could be wrong with that?
Harald turned to Gudrun. “Lady!” He bowed over her rough hand as though it were the white hand of a queen, and declaimed with a flourish:
“Far have we fared on the wide ocean,Where seabirds scream and the whales wander.Glad of our landfall, thanks we giveTo our fair hostess for this fine welcome.”
“Goodness!” Gudrun fluttered as Harald let go her hand. “Poetry!”
“His own.” Gunnar watched his son with a kind of rough delight.
“I’m honoured,” Gudrun exclaimed. “You’re most welcome. What a shame my father-in-law isn’t still alive. He was such a fine poet himself. He would so much have enjoyed this meeting.”
Would he? thought Hilde, watching her mother’s pleased pink flush. Or would he have thought Master Harald Silkenhair was a young whippersnapper?
She looked at Harald, wondering how many times he’d used that verse. Could he possibly be poking fun? But before she could consider the matter any further, Arnë tapped her shoulder. “Hilde, this is Gunnar’s wife, Astrid.”
Hilde turned, nearly bumping against a tall girl standing close behind her, muffled in an expensive-looking dark blue cloak with the hood up. A brown and white goatskin bag was slung over her shoulder on a long strap, which she clutched with long thin-wristed hands. She had ice-maiden skin, so white and thin that the blue veins glistened through, wide grey eyes, a neat straight nose like a cat’s with little curling nostrils, and pale closely-shut lips.
Their eyes met. For a second Hilde felt she was looking into the eyes of a deer or a hare, a wild animal who glares at you before bolting.
Then Astrid pushed her hood down. Out sprang a bright cloud of amber hair, frizzing and fizzling, catching the light in a million fiery glints. The hair transformed her cold, still face. With her hood down, she was beautiful.
Hilde held out her hand, puzzled. Gunnar’s wife? She doesn’t look much older than me. She can’t possibly be that boy’s mother!
Astrid touched Hilde’s hand with chilly fingers. There was a pause, and Hilde racked her brains for something to say. “Have you been to Vinland too?”
“No!” said Astrid in a low, curt voice. After a moment she added with reluctance, “Gunnar and I were only married in the fall. He’s an old friend of my father, Grimolf Sigurdsson of Westfold. He came to stay with us, and—I suppose he liked the look of me. I’m his second wife.”
So that’s it. Poor girl. Gunnar looks older than Pa. I’m glad I don’t have to marry an old man just because he’s rich. Aloud Hilde said, “How exciting! And now you can travel with him right across the world.”
But perhaps Astrid could tell what Hilde was thinking. Instead of answering she merely raised a scornful eyebrow. Then she stared at the floor. Hilde pursed her lips in annoyance.
“Not everyone wants to travel across the world, Hilde,” Arnë said with a smile. “Seafaring is hard for women.”
“I’d love to go to Vinland,” said Hilde immediately, determined to show Arnë that whatever most women were like, she was different.
Astrid looked up quickly, but before she or Arnë could reply, the door opened. A half-grown black puppy tumbled in and dashed around the room barking excitedly, followed by Peer’s dog Loki. A cheerful voice called, “Hey, hey, what’s this? Visitors?”
“Ralf,” cried Gudrun. “Get down, Gryla, stop barking! Sigurd, tie your puppy up. Ralf, look who Arnë’s brought to see us!”
The girls were left together. Hilde was about to make an excuse and slip away when Astrid touched her arm, and said stiffly, “Did you mean that? Would you really like to go to Vinland?”
Hilde opened her mouth to give some airy reply. Nothing came out. The warm, stifling world of the farmhouse wrapped around her throat like a tight scarf. She stared at Astrid, choking on the unfairness of it. Here was this awful boring girl, with her grand snooty manners, sailing off to Vinland while Hilde had to stay at home.
She doesn’t know how lucky she is. Oh, if only I had her chance. I want to see something new. I want to go far away. I want to—I want to find Soria Moria Castle, east of the sun and west of the moon!
Astrid was watching her like a cat. “Come with me!” she said.
Hilde made a strangled noise between a laugh and a hiccup. “What?”
“Come with me. Ask your mother. I’ll do my best to help you. I’ll tell Gunnar I want another girl for company. It’s true anyway.And then you’ll be on my side, won’t you?”
“On your s-side?” Hilde stammered, taken aback.
Something flashed at the back of Astrid’s eyes. “Nobody asked me if I wanted to come to Vinland. Nobody asked me if I wanted to marry Gunnar. Well, my father asked, but he certainly wasn’t listening for an answer. He’d already agreed. He wouldn’t insult a man like Gunnar.”
“Was—was there somebody else you liked?”
“There may have been,” said Astrid warily.
“My father would never do that to me,” said Hilde, appalled.
Astrid shrugged. “Lucky you. I thought of putting the cold curse on Gunnar, but someone’s done it already. He’s never warm. See?”
The cold curse? Hilde twisted round. Gunnar, still wrapped in his thick cloak, was hoisting Ralf’s big chair closer to the fire.
Astrid tossed her head. “Anyway, you needn’t feel sorry for me. I’m married, and I’m making the best of it. After all, Gunnar’s a famous man. You’ll never marry anyone half so well known. He treats me well, too. He’s never once struck me. The men say he’s as tough as Tyr, who put his hand in the wolf’s mouth. But he needs me. He has fevers, and sometimes he tries to stay awake because of bad dreams. And he hates being alone in the dark.” Her eyes narrowed. “I haven’t found out why yet, but I will. I know herbs; I know how to mix draughts to give him peaceful sleep. I can wind him round my little finger,” she boasted.
“What about Harald?” asked Hilde.
Astrid gave her a sharp glance. “Don’t be fooled by his looks. His own mother died years ago, so he didn’t mind me at first—he thought I was just a pretty little thing that his father might as well have. Now he knows better, and he’s jealous. What do you think of him?”
“Um. Isn’t he a little bit pleased with himself?”
Astrid laughed. “Oh, yes. There’s no one quite like Harald Silkenhair. Well! You might do.”
“Do?” Hilde decided all over again that she didn’t like Astrid. “What for?”
Astrid raised her eyebrows. “Don’t be like that. We could have fun together.You want to come to Vinland, don’t you? Or was that just talk?” she added scornfully.
“No! I meant it.” Hilde swallowed. “But…”
Astrid seemed to realise that she hadn’t been making a great impression. She looked at Hilde for a moment, as if wondering what to offer her. “I want you to come. Do you like secrets? If we’re going to be friends, I’ll tell you one.”
“Go on,” said Hilde, intrigued in spite of herself.
Astrid hesitated. “Shall I? Remember, I’m taking a risk, I’m trusting you. Are you easily shocked? No? All right, listen.” Her pale eyes opened wide. “There’s troll blood in me. Oh, yes, there is—a long way back perhaps, but it’s there. And I can see things other people can’t.”
“Troll blood?” A fascinated shiver ran down Hilde’s back. “What do you mean?”
Astrid gave her a conspiratorial smile. “What I say.” She leaned close and whispered, “My mother’s mother was the daughter of Thorodd Half-troll, and his mother was a troll out of the Dovrefell. My mother’s dead now. But she passed down all kinds of tricks to me.” She patted her big goatskin bag. “Gunnar thinks this is just herbs and medicines. Well, some of it is, and some of it isn’t.”
Hilde drew back in sudden suspicion. “You’re making it up.”
“Oh, am I?” Astrid looked around, but their low-voiced conversation was easily drowned by loud laughter from the men chatting and joking by the fire. “All right then.” She unbuckled the flap and plunged her arm into the bag. “Hold this.”
She handed Hilde a little square box, yellowish in the dim firelight. Hilde rubbed her fingers over it. It was made of smooth bone or ivory, but there were some scratchings on the lid, runes or patterns. She looked up at Astrid. “Well?”
“Listen to it,” said Astrid. “Put it to your ear.”
Hilde did. The box buzzed. She almost dropped it, and listened again. Yes, when her ear was pressed close, the box was buzzing or humming. Or was it even a sleepy, angry voice, singing or chanting a very, very long way off?
“What’s inside?” Hilde burned with curiosity. She pried at the lid.
“Don’t open it!” Astrid snatched it back. “My mother gave it me. It tells me things. Now do you believe me?”
Looking at Astrid in the flickering firelight, Hilde found she did. There was a slant to her eyes, a play of shadows on the cheekbones that reminded Hilde of the troll princess who lived underneath Troll Fell.
“Does Gunnar know you’ve—got troll blood?” she almost whispered. Astrid smiled, showing a line of sharp little white teeth. “Oh, no, he’s much too shockable. I told you, it’s a secret. He only knows I can do a little seidr—magic. Are you wondering if I’ve got a tail? Don’t worry, I haven’t. But the troll blood’s there. It makes me different. And I can see this, Hilde Ralfsdaughter. Like it or not, you’re coming with us to Vinland.” She pinched Hilde’s arm. “You wait and see. Let’s talk again later.” She walked away to the fire.
Hilde’s fingers prickled from touching the little buzzing box. Her breath came short. A smile of pure excitement curled her lips. The cold curse. Troll blood. Like it or not, you’re coming with us to Vinland. And to think that only a short while ago she had thought Astrid conventional and dull!
Oh, she thought, I do want to go with her. I must!
CHAPTER 4 The Nis Amuses Itself (#ulink_5f2b3a09-c424-5f4a-9ba8-4330260af301)
As Peer came out of the wood there was a rustling and pattering in the bushes: trolls probably, out foraging now that night had fallen. Troll Fell loomed above the farm like a dreaming giant, asleep with his head on his knees. Just over the giant’s shoulder, a scraped-out moon bobbed in a flood of clouds.
Peer hesitated by the farmhouse door. All the way up the track he’d hurried along, imagining Harald picking a quarrel with Ralf, insulting Hilde, frightening the twins. He’d pictured himself striding in to the rescue. But now his imagination failed. Harald had a sword and would use it. It would be no good trying to pull him outside for a fist-fight.
He wished now he’d come home earlier. He could have found Hilde, and told her all about it. And yet…the story made him look such a fool. What if Harald called him Barelegs in front of Hilde? How can I stop him? What shall I do?
“You don’t have to play his games,” Bjørn had said. But Peer had a feeling that Harald was good at pushing people into games they had no wish to play.
Reluctantly he lifted the latch, and something scampered across the yard and mewed at the bottom of the door like a hopeful cat. The Nis—their touchy little house spirit! It must have been accidentally shut out. As the door creaked open he got a glimpse of its beady eyes, skinny outline and little red hat before it shot past his ankles and whizzed up the wall into the rafters.
He closed the door. The room was hot, bright and crowded, the atmosphere unnaturally hushed. Peer’s taut nerves twanged. What’s going on? Trouble?
A strong voice chanted:
“The hound of heaven, the ship-seizer,Hunted us over the wild waters.Weary wanderers, we fled beforeThe wide jaws of the wind-wolf!”
It was Harald, the centre of attention, standing at the long trestle table reciting his poetry to the family. He made a brave sight, gold gleaming at his neck. Everyone listened in apparent admiration. No one had eyes for Peer.
Peer waited by the door, hungry and cross. In full flow, Harald chanted on. It was all about the voyage to Vinland, and he was making it sound pretty stormy and adventurous. Once he caught Peer’s eye, and a faint smirk fled across his face.
Would the poem never end? Was Harald deliberately spinning it out to keep him waiting? Something scuffled overhead. Dust dropped in a fairy cascade. Suppressing a sneeze, Peer rubbed his eyes and saw flickering movement along the roofbeams. It would be the Nis poking about amongst the cobwebs, chasing spiders—one of its favourite games. Good. At least the Nis couldn’t be bothered with Harald Silkenhair!
At last Harald’s voice rose in triumphant climax:
“But our sleek ship, our proud sea-serpent Bore us swiftly to a safe haven,An empty land, fleeced in forests,Land for our labours, land for claiming!”
Everyone but Peer clapped and cheered. Harald flung himself back on the bench, lifted his cup and tossed down a draught of ale. “Great stuff!” roared Ralf, pounding the table. “Grand! ‘Our sleek ship, our proud sea-serpent!’ I’ve always wished I could make poetry. My father could, but I can’t. ‘An empty land, fleeced in forests.’ That’s not right, though. Vinland isn’t empty. There are people there.”
Harald’s laugh was a jeer. “People? You mean the Skraelings?”
Peer didn’t know what a Skraeling was, but nothing would have induced him to ask. He squeezed down the room and reached over Arnë’s shoulder to grab some food. Gudrun smiled at him, and Hilde flipped him a wave, but the benches were full, so he folded himself into a corner near the fire, sitting on the earth floor with his back against one of the big wooden posts that held up the roof. Loki came out from under the table to greet him. Peer pulled him close and fed him a piece of cheese.
Sigurd was asking loudly, “What’s a Skraeling?”
“Skraelings, laddie?” Gunnar set down his horn cup with a crack. “A Skraeling is a wretch, a pitiful rascal. It’s what we call those creatures who live in Vinland. No better than trolls. They live in tents made from bits of tree bark. They dress in skins. Your little sister knows more than the Skraelings do. Why,” he guffawed, “at one place we stopped they were so ignorant that they bartered good furs for a few miserable pieces of red cloth. And when we ran short of cloth, we tore it into thinner and thinner strips, and still the Skraelings paid in furs.”
“That’s not what Pa told us,” said Hilde. Peer nodded agreement. Ralf’s stories had made these people sound like tall forest spirits, flitting between the trees with bright feathers in their black hair.
Ralf said mildly, “I thought they were fine people. And why shouldn’t they barter furs for cloth, if cloth was a rarity? I don’t call that proof of ignorance.”
Gunnar stared as though he wasn’t used to being disagreed with. Gudrun broke in, “But aren’t they dangerous? Isn’t that how you lost your hand, Gunnar—fighting Skraelings?”
“Skraelings? No!” Gunnar’s face darkened. “No. It happened in Westfold before I left. An argument in an ale-house.” Here his wife gave him a cold glance, Peer noticed—perhaps she didn’t approve of ale-house fights. “The man jumped me before I was ready for him. Luckily I had my boy here with me.”
“What did Harald do?” Sigurd asked eagerly.
“Oh, I just cut the fellow’s hair for him. With this,” said Harald with a lazy wink, patting his sword. Sigurd laughed out loud, and Ralf grinned. Astrid studied her nails, and Gudrun shook her head. Peer stared at Harald in deep dislike.
Harald twitched. He brushed at his shoulder, frowning. A moment later he shook his head, combing his fingers through his hair.Then Peer realised.The Nis, perching in the rafters, was amusing itself by dropping things on to Harald’s head—dead spiders and bits of grit and cobwebs. Brilliant! He tousled Loki’s ears, grinning.
“Anyway, tell us about your settlement,” exclaimed Ralf. “What’s it called? What’s it like? And how’s my old friend Thorolf?”
Peer looked up. It would be good to hear news of Thorolf; he remembered him as a tall, pleasant-faced man who had often spoken to his father in the boat sheds at Hammerhaven.
A glance passed between Harald and Gunnar. “We’ve had no news of Thorolf since we left him in Vinland last year,” said Harald, yawning. “Have we, father?”
“How could we?” Gunnar shivered suddenly, and the cup shook and splashed in his hand. He set it down. “Harald’s right. We left him there last year. Haven’t been back since.”
“Ah, then you don’t know what he’s up to now,” Ralf pointed out. “He may have come after you.”
Gunnar mumbled something. Peer, who was sitting near him, saw in surprise that his face was beaded with sweat. He noticed Astrid giving her husband a sharp, curious glance.
