Hawk Quest (45 page)
Syth drew away and looked at Wayland with cloudy eyes. ‘What about the dog?’
He motioned with his head and the dog rose and shook itself and went away to the edge of the fjord. It lay down panting, briefly looked back at the camp and then raised its head to watch the returning sun.
Midsummer passed and no report of
Shearwater
reached Iceland. Vallon kicked his heels and grew morose. Hero and Richard were glad when trade took them away from Ottarshall. Vallon was left with Garrick, who had the knack of knowing when to speak to the captain and when to keep out of his way. June gave way to July and Vallon’s depression deepened. So long as he’d kept moving he’d been able to stay one step ahead of his demons. Now they came crowding in on him. Each day he rose late and spent hours staring across the blasted landscape. He grew careless of his appearance.
Rumours filtered in of a Norwegian ship wrecked on the Westman Isles. It wasn’t until the second week of July that a ship arrived from Greenland carrying news of
Shearwater
’s safe passage and her departure for the northern hunting grounds. Vallon’s spirits rose. Barring accidents or bad weather, the company should be back and ready to sail south by the beginning of August. With only two more weeks to get through, he shook himself out of his sloth. He resumed his English lessons and began a regime of exercise. It had been weeks since he’d practised his swordsmanship and his muscles had grown slack.
Garrick stuffed a sealskin with straw and hung it from a woolsack frame. Vallon shaped a wooden sword of the right weight and balance and by the end of a week he was attacking the dummy with four hundred strokes daily. Two hundred with each hand. Vallon’s steel blade was lighter than most swords and he’d trained since childhood to be dextrous with either limb.
Children from a nearby farm sometimes came to watch. One morning when Vallon was thumping the target, the children squealed and ran off to await the passage of four riders trotting down the road
towards Reykjavik. Their cries brought Gisla out. When she saw the party she exclaimed in delight and hobbled after the youngsters.
‘What’s all the excitement about?’ Vallon asked Garrick.
‘Not sure, sir. The old woman said something that sounded like “the princess”.’
Vallon wiped his sweaty forehead on his sleeve and laughed. ‘A princess? We mustn’t miss this.’
He strolled over to the verge wearing only breeches and a shirt unlaced down his chest. The riders drew near. In front, stepping out smartly on a well-groomed grey, rode a statuesque woman in an embroidered white dress and a fur tippet. Her waist-length hair was the colour of garnets and framed a complexion as pale as chalk, as chilly as marble. A maid trotted behind her and in the rear rode two armed and well-turned-out chaperons.
The children fell silent and stood in a row with their eyes lowered while the procession clopped by. Gisla, thrilled to pieces, curtseyed for all she was worth.
Garrick dragged off his hat and bobbed. Enjoying the diversion, Vallon bent at the waist and swept one hand over the ground. The lady heading the procession turned smoky green eyes towards him and an expression bordering on revulsion crossed her face. She turned back to the front and flicked her reins. Her escorts pranced level. One of them had the same colouring as the lady and was clearly her brother. He didn’t so much as glance at Vallon. The other sneered down his nose.
Vallon was amused by their arrogance. He raised his wooden sword. ‘Good morning, gentlemen.’
Neither of them returned the courtesy. They rode on and Vallon heard a derisive laugh. The kids cheered and ran about. Gisla twined her fingers and raised her eyes as if she’d been vouchsafed a vision of the Heavenly Queen.
Garrick grinned at Vallon. ‘Fine-looking woman.’
‘Haughty,’ said Vallon. He watched her tittuping away down the road. ‘Ask the widow what makes them so high and mighty.’
Garrick made his report over supper. ‘The lady’s name is Caitlin Sigurdsdottir, but everybody calls her “the princess”. On account of her beauty and pride. Caitlin’s an Irish name. Her family were among the first to settle in Iceland. They trace their ancestry to a warrior called Aud who sailed in the first convoy from Norway.
‘Anyway,’ Garrick continued, ‘it turned out that the Norwegians weren’t the first Iceland settlers. A shipload of Irish monks and farmers had set up a colony a few years earlier. This man Aud fell in love with one of the Irish women, Caitlin, and she with him. He murdered her husband to make her his own but she died giving birth to their daughter. He called the girl Caitlin, and since then all the first-born daughters have carried that name.’
‘What makes the family so grand?’
‘Wealth and lineage. Being among the first settlers, they took the best land. They own one of the largest estates on the island.’ Garrick pointed north-east. ‘Their farm’s about two days’ ride from here. They’ve also earned a reputation for fierceness. They were party to a blood feud that ran for generations until Helgi – that’s Caitlin’s brother – killed the last surviving foeman.’
‘A hundred sheep and a few murdered farmers doesn’t make Caitlin a princess.’
Garrick smiled. ‘You have to admit she carries it off. Every man of consequence has sought her hand and she’s spurned them all. Now she’s turned twenty-four and has run out of suitors, so she’s contracted a marriage to a wealthy earl in Norway. The groom’s a lot older than she is. She and her brother are visiting the coast to arrange their sea passage.’
‘Tell me his name again.’
‘Helgi. Called “the Fly” behind his back because he’s so quick to bite. Quick to anger and slow to forget a slur. Very protective of his sister.’ Garrick dropped his voice. ‘It’s rumoured that she rejects all suitors because he covets her himself.’
Vallon dismissed this slander. ‘Do they know who we are?’
‘Of course they do. You can’t keep anything secret on Iceland.’
Vallon took to making solitary journeys into the hinterland. His excursions were a way of killing time, yet time was running out. August had arrived and the season was beginning to turn. If
Shearwater
hadn’t returned by the end of the month, he would be faced with a hard decision: wait for the ship and risk missing the winds that would carry them south, or give up on
Shearwater
and arrange an alternative passage to Norway.
One of his journeys took him up the shore of a large lake and west
past the site where the Icelanders held their annual parliament. Harvest time was here and families were at work in the home meadows, scything hay and hanging it on lines to dry. On a whim Vallon turned off the road onto a faint trail that climbed north to a saddle between ice-toothed mountains. From here he descended to a desert of black sand blistered with smoking cinder cones. All day he rode, borne along in a melancholy trance, not aiming for anywhere in particular. The desert gave way to moorland. In the gloaming he reached a river and made a fireless camp. After a meal of fish and bread he sat wrapped in blankets thinking of his wife dead and the children he’d never see again. It grew dark – the first truly dark night since he’d arrived in Iceland. He lay under a parchment moon with his saddle for a pillow, listening to the river, and towards midnight he slept.
When he awoke the sun was hidden behind clouds the colour of wet leather. His hobbled horse cropped the grass near by. He saddled up and forded the river. On the other side he gave the horse its head, knowing that eventually it would lead him to a farm. For mile after mile the country remained uninhabited. He was beginning to think he’d passed beyond the frontier of settlement when at last he climbed another watershed and sat looking across a wide green basin. The clouds parted and palings of sunlight illuminated a farmstead miles away on the other side. On he went, his route taking him towards a steaming caldera with slopes ribbed like a clam shell.
He tethered his horse at the base and climbed one of the lava gullies and looked over the rim.
He ducked back and lay with his fingers hooked into the ground. Imprinted on his eye was a vision of Caitlin, naked, wading into the lake on the other side of the crater. He couldn’t shake the image loose. The heavy orbs of her breasts, the generous curves of her waist, the triangle beneath it. Tears of merriment squeezed into his eyes as he contrasted her luscious charms with the frigid figure who’d regarded him with such contempt.
Cautiously he raised his head again. The lake was a fantastic setting, paling from ultramarine at the centre to a delicate duck-egg blue in the shallows. Caitlin had waded in up to her breasts and stood with her arms outstretched, her dark red tresses floating all about her. A blue tattoo decorated one of her arms. Two young handmaidens, one blonde and one dark, stood behind her in demure attendance.
Watching the chaste scene, Vallon felt a flash of something like innocence, and then memory broke in and he tasted ashes. He slid down the slope and turned on his back with his eyes open to the sky.
He sat up, frowning. A faint vibration reached him through the ground. Horses. He grimaced as he realised the awkwardness of his situation. There was nowhere to hide. The riders were approaching from the other side of the crater and he could only stay put and pray that they didn’t come round this side. The hoofbeats stopped. Voices carried. He heard a woman’s laugh. There was a grinding sensation in his stomach. He knew that only Helgi would dare intrude on Caitlin at her bathing pond, and he could guess how the headstrong young Icelander would deal with anyone caught trespassing on his sister’s privacy.
Vallon decided to sneak off while the bathers were engaged with their visitors. Feeling a complete fool, he crept over to his horse. He cast a furtive look over his shoulder. Still no one in sight. He was ashamed by how fast his heart was beating. He’d raised one foot into a stirrup when a shout told him that he’d been seen. A man stood pointing down from the rim of the crater.
Vallon leaned his forehead against his horse’s neck. ‘Damn!’
Around the crater galloped four men kicking up wedges of turf. They had their weapons drawn and Helgi rode standing in his stirrups. Vallon stood behind his own mount with his hand on his sword. The riders encircled him and he stepped away from his horse and spread his hands.
‘Gentlemen, I rode without knowing my way and found myself in this lonely spot. Seeing the breath from the crater, I climbed up to satisfy my curiosity. I had no idea your sister and her companions were taking the waters. I offer my apologies.’
He used his limited English, trusting that his contrite smile and gestures would make his meaning clear.
Helgi spotted Vallon’s tracks climbing to the rim. ‘You’ve been spying on my sister.’
‘I caught a glimpse of her by accident, but the water protected her modesty and I retreated immediately. No offence was committed either by eye or by thought.’
Helgi stared at the spot where Vallon had lain as if it would show evidence of his lust. ‘Liar.’
His head turned as Caitlin and her companions ran towards them holding up their skirts. Caitlin saw Vallon and her mouth dropped. From shock to fury took only a moment. Hotspots blazed on her cheeks and she spat a stream of invective. Helgi said something that fanned her anger. She concluded her outburst by pulling a knife from her girdle and jabbing it at Vallon.
‘Did you convey my apologies?’ he asked.
Helgi rode forward and kicked him in the face. At least, that was his intention. Vallon swayed back and grabbed Helgi’s ankle and pulled him off-balance so that his sword swung wide. Vallon sprang away and drew his own sword as the other Icelanders spurred in on him.
Helgi vaulted off his horse and threw out an arm. ‘He’s mine.’
Vallon backed away. ‘It was an accident. I was lost. How could I have known that your sister was bathing?’
Caitlin launched into another harangue. Her wet hair hung in viperous coils. Venus transformed into a shrieking harpy.
Vallon addressed her for the first time. ‘Why don’t you shut up?’
For a moment she did. Vallon made one last attempt to negotiate. ‘If my apology isn’t sufficient, tell me how I can make amends.’
Helgi didn’t understand and didn’t want to understand. He jabbed with his sword. ‘Fight!’
‘Don’t be a fool.’
‘Fight! Or do you only play with wooden swords?’
Vallon squinted towards Caitlin. ‘If you love your brother, I suggest you find another way to settle this squabble.’
She went into another ear-fraying rant. Vallon lost his temper.
‘You stuck-up bitch! What makes you think I’d ride for two days across a wilderness on the off-chance that I’d snatch a glimpse of a woman with an arse as big as her pony’s?’
‘Fight!’ Helgi shouted. His men took up the refrain, banging their shields. ‘Fight! Fight!’
Vallon knew that he could kill Helgi with one hand tied behind his back. Whether he could kill all his followers was uncertain, but it didn’t matter. He was an outlander in a country where men pursued feuds for generations and went to their deaths knowing that relatives would fight their cause beyond the grave. Somehow he had to appease Caitlin and repair Helgi’s slighted honour.
‘Listen—’
Helgi screamed and charged. Vallon parried with ease. Helgi’s blade clashed against his sword and snapped off clean below the hilt. He goggled at the stub with such dismay that Vallon had to put all his mind to keeping a straight face. Bog iron worked by a smith more used to shoeing horses than forging weapons. He lowered his own weapon.
‘You’ve made your point. My apology still stands. Now let it rest.’
Helgi stared at Caitlin and held up the remnant of his sword. She hiked her skirts to her knees and screamed at him. He glanced at Vallon and when he saw that his opponent wasn’t about to kill him, he scampered towards one of his entourage and grabbed his sword.
Vallon pointed his own blade at Caitlin. ‘So be it. Your brother’s blood will be on your head.’
This time Helgi didn’t charge in but skipped and feinted. Vallon tracked him, assessing his strengths and weaknesses. As a swordsman he was sorely wanting. For all his youth and agility, he wielded the weapon like it was a flail and signalled each stroke before he delivered it. Vallon played along, trading blow for blow, waiting for Helgi to tire and grow demoralised. When stalemate was reached, he’d deliver a few unnerving near misses and then offer to call it quits.
