Council, page 7
Helga had to fight to stop herself smiling. The barb had been pitched perfectly, delivered when Thorgnyr was out of earshot and underplayed with great accuracy. She watched as the town split – not quite down the middle, because for all his faults, Thorgnyr was thought to be wise and mostly fair . . . but still, there were quite enough people in the market-field who had lost out because of his rulings, and of course anyone that close to the king would accumulate enemies. Furthermore, the people of Uppsala might have their own opinions on this, that and the other, but few would turn down free mead.
Freysteinn whistled softly. ‘I can’t remember seeing Thorgnyr trounced like that since . . .’ He fell silent.
‘Ever?’ Helga said. Despite the rising morning sun, she felt like winter. It wasn’t hard to imagine Hildigunnur thirty years ago, straight-backed and unflinching, arguing her way around fat traders and bearded chieftains and besting them all. It was much harder to shake the image of the feral, furious Jorunn, in a hut with her and Einar, brandishing a knife and bragging about having stabbed her brother in the back. But it was even harder to deny a touch of admiration for her foster-sister. Helga had endured Thorgnyr’s grating, nasal and supercilious manner on more than one occasion, watched him parading around, safe in the knowledge that he had the king’s favour and was unquestionably the wisest legal mind for as far as the eye could see, and she somehow couldn’t find it in herself to side with the man who had just now, and in front of an audience to boot, been knocked down a peg or two.
Lost in her thoughts, it took her a while to notice that Freysteinn was no longer by her side. Dimly, she registered a faint warmth from her rune necklace. ‘Dagaz and Laguz,’ she said softly to herself. ‘Hope and mystery.’
Much less calmly than she would have liked, she cast her eye around. When she finally spotted him, walking over to Jorunn’s cart, her insides turned over again. By the tying post, Grundle snorted and stamped the ground again.
‘I know it’s fine,’ she said out loud, but her words lacked conviction. Instead, she was silently cursing her location. She’d set up where experience had taught her she would attract the most customers, at the centre of the field, but Jorunn’s crew had set up their cart at the edge, which meant it was too far to hear even snatches of conversation. It took some careful, casual movement to position herself where she could keep an eye on her wares and the customers . . . and Freysteinn’s back.
The moments dragged on, slower than a winter moon – and still he stayed. He must have seen everything she has to offer, and twice over! Anger flared within her, but she couldn’t say why, exactly.
‘He can look at what he likes,’ she muttered, rearranging her bags of flavour-enhancing herbs for the fifth time. ‘And he can buy a statue from her and shove it up his—’
Grundle whinnied, and Helga caught herself.
‘Fine, fine,’ she grumbled. ‘You’re right and I am being stupid.’ Rooting around, she found the brush and went over to comb the horse’s mane. The animal nudged her gently. ‘I have you,’ she muttered, ‘and you are honest and true.’ Feeling the horse’s head against her cheek was comforting, as was the blast of hot breath as the mare snorted in pleasure. ‘And you have me, and it’s us against the world.’ Grundle blew out more air in agreement and reached her head down towards the grass, gently head-butting Helga’s hip in the process.
Helga glanced over the horse’s neck. He’s still there. Before she could check herself, her feet were moving. Too late to turn back now. She sent the brush sailing through the air to land in the cart. Fear and anger jostled for control within her, until both were lost to a cold, hard emotion she didn’t recognise. She was dimly aware that she was walking past people she should greet, but whatever was pulling her towards the visitors’ cart was pushing her away from sensible decisions.
And then she was there, looking straight at the side of Jorunn’s face.
‘Welcome.’ The voice was lightly touched with the honey of a well-practised merchant: not too much, not too little. Enough to make you feel special, not enough to suggest she was desperate. And all without so much as a hint of recognition, because Jorunn was not taking her eyes off Freysteinn.
‘Welcome to Uppsala,’ Helga replied, fighting hard to keep the grimace off her face. Her voice sounded hollow, somehow – like she was outside herself, listening in on the conversation. ‘Have you come from afar?’ In her mind she saw Hildigunnur, rolling her eyes and throwing her hands up in the air in disgust as she started walking away from a hopelessly dim pupil. ‘Come from afar?’ Is that the best you’ve got?
But this time, the scorn neither worked nor mattered.
‘We came from the Dales,’ Jorunn replied, turning to face her. ‘The ride was uneventful.’
Did she just—? Helga felt her heart lurch. Did she just put a tiny bit too much emphasis on the word ‘ride’ and make eyes at Freysteinn?
‘That’s good,’ Freysteinn said, sounding oblivious to the undercurrents swirling between the two women.
‘Oh, I don’t know.’
Oh, she definitely did. Helga’s blood felt dangerously close to boiling. She’s almost bloody purring.
‘It was boring, if I am to be honest. I don’t mind a bit of . . . action.’
Helga felt the swelling in her breast like a breath that she never stopped taking. Within it, her heart was thudding so hard that she was sure it could be heard across the field. It took her the full blink of an eye to remember words again, and another blink to be anywhere close to being able to speak. ‘You certainly did well with our Lawspeaker,’ she stuttered.
‘You usually get one free strike with men like that,’ Jorunn replied. ‘He’ll be ready next time.’
‘Does that worry you?’ Helga listened to the words coming out of her mouth and hanging in the air between them. She sounded petty and shrill and weak. Why won’t you recognise me? You threatened to kill me, you yammering bitch!
Jorunn looked at her fully now, and Helga suddenly felt small and powerless and childish. She can take me and everything I own. The thought lanced through her, carved through years of confidence and cut her to the core.
‘No.’ The reply was dismissive and final.
And with that, Helga let go of everything she’d tried to control. Running her hand over a row of belts beautifully coiled around a wooden block she relaxed into the cold current of her fury. ‘With pricing like that, you should.’
Jorunn’s manner cooled demonstrably. ‘How so?’
‘You’re selling these—’
Jorunn interrupted, ‘—masterfully crafted belts, from Araby—’
‘Not unless Sven from Fjarndal has changed his name to Araby in the last few months. He came through here two years back, and that’ – she lifted up one of the belts and pointed to a tiny scratch, almost hidden by the buckle – ‘is his rune there.’
Jorunn looked at her like someone who had just discovered a bug in their corn. ‘That is kind of you to mention, but I am sure no one would think that that clearly exotic rune looks anything like this . . . “Sven” of yours.’
But you’ll know, and you’ll know that I know. Helga asked, almost as if an afterthought, ‘And how much are your healing herbs?’
‘We trade them on an exchange basis.’
A warmth inside made her feel like someone who has just set their own house on fire. ‘So, what would I need to give you for that bag of herbs?’ Jorunn made to speak but Helga held up a hand to stop her and continued, ‘I ask only for curiosity, as I trade in herbs myself.’
Jorunn scowled. ‘If so, then you should hope your customers will come back to you after they’ve seen what I have to offer,’ she snapped back. Her men had gathered behind her, with the dark-skinned man standing slightly apart, looking decidedly displeased.
But with what? Helga wondered.
‘And they won’t, because our stuff is better than yours,’ the biggest of them, the bruiser, rasped. His beady eyes glared at her from above a nose broken at least three times.
He reacted to her tone of voice like a dog to a whistle. Helga had just about enough time to form the thought when a familiar voice sounded behind her.
‘Easy there, big man,’ Freysteinn moved up to her side and then stepped in front of her. There was steel in his voice. ‘We’ll see how we go.’
‘I’ll see how you go,’ the bruiser growled.
The dark-skinned man shifted on his feet, just a slight . . . readiness – then stopped. The movement had been tiny, but Helga had caught it: a sudden flick of Jorunn’s fingers. A signal. Don’t.
The big man took a pace forward, then another, more decisive this time, and squared off in front of Freysteinn. ‘You jumped-up little shit, coming over here and getting in the way of us being traders, trading – uh, honestly—’
They weren’t words so much as noises to start a fight, but it made no sense. Why wouldn’t she command him to stop? She glanced at the dark-skinned man, but he’d slinked back like a morning shadow and was now standing behind Jorunn, glaring at the back of the big man’s head.
She wants this. The realisation spread through Helga’s blood like cold water. The game isn’t going her way, so she’s changing the rules. But why?
‘Those are big words,’ Freysteinn said, calmly, ‘and strange ones, for a guest of the king.’
‘Well, you’re not making us feel very welcome,’ the bruiser growled. ‘And you need to show some respect.’ Two quick steps and a meaty hand was on Freysteinn’s chest. ‘Step back and let other people through.’ He pushed.
Freysteinn slapped his hand away, scowling. ‘You give no orders here.’
‘Neither do you, squirt,’ the big man said.
‘Lars . . .’ Jorunn’s voice was quiet and there was a low note of caution. That was the command to stop – but it was so softly spoken.
Helga wasn’t even sure the man had heard her. She has to know that he’s far past listening! He’s about to start a fight – what is she playing at?
‘And I will not be spoken to like this by a sapling little shit like you,’ Lars growled, winding himself up even further, ‘so you need to do right and apologise.’ Another step and he was chest to chest with Freysteinn, but the younger man neither budged, nor replied.
‘Apologise.’ This time the man pushed hard, but still Freysteinn didn’t shift.
Helga was desperately trying to work out what she’d missed, because this was about to get nasty if she couldn’t stop it.
‘Lars.’ Jorunn snapped at him this time, but there was no response; she might not have spoken at all for all the attention her man was paying her.
‘Apologise!’
‘Lars – back off!’ This time Jorunn did lace her voice with command, but far from obeying, Lars growled and swung at Freysteinn, his big, meaty fist clenched to do real damage.
But Freysteinn effortlessly swung out of the way of the punch – and then Helga felt the heat moments before something – no, someone – crashed past her.
There was a muted thud, an eye-blink of silence – and then a collection of noises as Lars hit the ground, hard.
Alfgeir knelt over the fallen man. ‘In my town,’ the king’s right hand growled, ‘I start things, and I finish them.’
‘Get up and shut up, Lars.’ Jorunn’s voice was cold.
The dark-skinned man behind her looked impassive. He’s neither flexing nor scowling. He’s just . . . ready, Helga realised. The man’s unusual reactions, his differences, were unnerving her.
Lars sat up and glared at Jorunn, then Alfgeir. ‘He disrespected me – and you! You have no right to—’
The rest of the sentence was cut short as Alfgeir delivered a vicious kick to the man’s side, then grabbed him by the neck and pounded him back down. ‘Was something I said unclear to you?’
This time, Lars didn’t move. Neither did anyone else, for that matter. Lying on the ground, the man shook his head slowly.
‘Good,’ Alfgeir growled. ‘Now you will listen to me, and this time you will hear me. If you so much as look at anyone funny from now until you leave, your friends may have to search the woods for a while before they find all the parts of your body. What do you say?’
He muttered something into his chest.
‘I didn’t hear you.’
‘I will,’ Lars hissed between gritted teeth, ‘respect the peace and the king’s rule.’
Alfgeir stood up and took a couple of steps back. Only now did he appear to notice Jorunn’s delegation and maybe it was Helga’s imagination, but his shoulders stiffened somewhat.
But Jorunn didn’t see the reaction to her presence, for her attention was fixed on her man on the ground. ‘I thought we’d had a conversation,’ she said. Without waiting for his answer, she snapped, ‘Stand up.’
Lars did as he was told and Jorunn slapped him across the face.
It took him a moment to realise what had happened. Helga couldn’t see his expression, but the sudden set of his shoulders told the tale and stung into shock, he made as if to move towards Jorunn – then he suddenly stopped in his tracks. A slight movement from the dark-skinned man had apparently convinced him that acting on his impulses would be, at this moment at least, a very bad idea.
‘You do not disobey my orders. You do not bring the Dales into disrepute. And’ – Jorunn’s lips were pursed so hard that her mouth looked ready to break – ‘you do not step in front of me. Ever.’
For a moment the bruiser looked ready to speak, but he reconsidered and head bowed, stomped back to his place behind the grey-haired commander, who was glaring at him.
Jorunn turned to Alfgeir. ‘On behalf of the men of the Dales, I would like to ask that you forgive Lars. He has a hot head and little wit to fill it with.’
Helga watched her, a mixture of emotions swirling through her. The first, and strongest, hurt her the most. Jorunn is Hildigunnur’s. I was never her real daughter. Jorunn looked regal and commanding. She spoke with absolute certainty and would never back down.
Helga turned to Alfgeir, and her mood improved drastically. And Alfgeir Bjorne is decidedly unimpressed.
‘Words are cheap, Jorunn Unnthorsdottir, and the gods know you have enough of them.’ Alfgeir did not take so much as a half-step to meet Jorunn’s attempt at reconciliation and the grizzled band behind Jorunn, recognising it, bunched together a little tighter. They were trying hard not to betray emotions, but Helga thought she had caught one or two of them flinching. Do they like her – or just fear her?
‘I had hoped for a better welcome, Alfgeir,’ Jorunn said.
‘After your husband ran away from a wergild negotiation?’
‘It was never proven,’ Jorunn snapped. ‘It was their word against ours.’
‘And yet you did not stay long enough to let the sitting council clear your name.’
‘We had business to attend to. I’ve done nothing wrong.’
‘Never said you had.’ Alfgeir smiled. ‘You can come and go wherever you please, without any worry for your reputation.’
Helga found she was wincing as a shadow of anger flickered across Jorunn’s face at the insult, but then the mask of control was back in place.
‘But if you do, prepare to see your name in the mud. And if you cannot keep your dog on a leash . . .’
The threat was the worst kind: a polite one. Helga watched as glances passed between Jorunn’s travelling companions. More than one of them stole a look at the dark-skinned man. Jorunn’s camp might be tense tonight.
Alfgeir continued, ‘King Eirik confirms that you have licence to trade. Do not overstep the bounds of his hospitality, and do not test my patience. There is a lot more of one than the other.’ With that the big man nodded, shot Helga a glance that clearly said, Get away from here if you know what’s best for you! and walked off.
The moment his broad back was turned, everyone around Jorunn’s cart did an incredible job of pretending nothing had happened. After a moment’s indecision, Helga decided that Alfgeir was correct: it would be the right thing to walk away as well, and without prompting, Freysteinn followed her. Neither of them spoke as they made their way across the field to where Grundle stood, thoughtfully chewing on grass.
Finally, Freysteinn broke the silence. ‘I’ve never seen you go after another trader like that.’
‘No.’ After a while, ‘I don’t think I ever have.’
‘So why her?’
‘Because I know her.’ It was out of her mouth without warning. She felt the lump in her throat growing.
‘You know her?’ Freysteinn sounded almost alarmed. ‘How?’
She couldn’t name either of the feelings clashing within her, but one won over the other. ‘I grew up on a farm in the Norse dales. Jorunn’s mother took me in once all her children had left. In my seventeenth summer they all came back for a kin-meet – only none of them wanted to meet the others; they just wanted their father’s treasure. After a hard feast the oldest, Karl, was killed in his sleep by his younger brother.’
Freysteinn just stared at her, his mouth hanging open. She waited for a moment, but he didn’t ask any questions.
‘Unnthor, the man I called “father”, threatened to kill anyone who left, so there we were. Jorunn lied, manipulated and eventually stabbed her brother in the back. I found her out and made her confess. She threatened to kill me – she probably would have done, if Unnthor and his men hadn’t heard her through the walls. I laid a trap – and she walked straight into it. She is rotten to the core, that one. There is more to the story, of course, but that is the bones of it.’
Helga took a deep breath, like she’d just come up after a long swim underwater, and noticed that Freysteinn seemed to be looking at her . . . differently. He sees me as an equal. The thought was thrilling. She was feeling . . . light, almost as if she’d launched herself off a cliff, tumbled head over heels in the air and landed on her feet. The show-down with Jorunn felt like she’d been tested, and had passed.
