The Iron Lance (8 page)

Despite his feelings, however, Murdo made no prayers. He felt it beneath his dignity to honor that distant tyrant with his reverence, and he certainly did not care to enter into any bargains which might require him to atone in some disagreeable way, or attend church more often than he already did. He bore his affliction as best he could, working hard and taking long walks at dusk when his thoughts inevitably turned towards the forthcoming journey…and the ineffable delight which lay at the end of it.

When the day of their departure finally dawned, Murdo was awake and ready before the cock had finished crowing. For the life of him, he could not understand why, this day of all days, everyone had suddenly become so sluggish and slow. It was not as if they were taking the entire holding with them; besides his mother, Murdo was the only other person going, along with Peder, of course, and Hin, one of the younger servingmen, who was to help with the boat. But there were numerous baskets and
bundles of food, and several chests of clothing and other belongings to be loaded onto the wagon and carried down to the boat, and stowed aboard.

“We are not settling unknown territory,” Murdo observed tartly. “Why do we need all this—this tack?”

“Is it impatient you are?” his mother cooed sweetly. “Ah, heart of my heart, you will see your Ragna again soon enough.”

Murdo gaped at his mother. All this time he had been so careful—how did she know? How
could
she know?

He could feel his cheeks burning, and turned away quickly. “I was only thinking of the weather,” he said vehemently. “Peder says we will have a good wind to begin, but it will grow tassy by midday.”

“Listen to you now,” Niamh said, her eyes glinting mischievously as she stepped near, “going on about the weather, when the merest mention of her name brings the color to your cheeks…or was that the wind as well?”

He glared at his mother, but held his tongue lest he make the thing worse.

“Murdo,” she coaxed, “you have been stalking around here like a caged bear ever since we decided to go to Cnoc Carrach—did you really think I would not guess the reason? I have been the mother of sons for a fair few years; there is very little I do not ken of menfolk.”

Murdo softened under her gentle reproof. He shrugged, and said, “Well, we have been shut up here all winter, after all. I know how eager you are to see your friend again.”

Lady Niamh put her hand on her son's shoulder. “Hear me, my soul,” she said, “Ragna is a splendid young woman, and nothing would make me happier than seeing you take her to wife. Your father feels the same, I know. We are both noble families, and there is a great deal to be said for binding our houses
together. I have good reason to believe Lord Brusi would welcome the match.”

“Mother,” he said, mystified, “why are you telling me this?”

She smiled. “So that you will feel free to follow your heart in the matter.” She lifted her hand and lightly touched his cheek. “I have seen the way you look at her. Truly, a love match is a rare thing, my light. Your father and I have been fortunate, but many—nay most—are not so blessed.” She paused. “As it happens, I have also seen the way Ragna looks at
you
.”

Murdo jerked his head back in disbelief.

“Oh, aye,” his mother assured him, “she likes you, Murdo. She surely does.”

Unable to endure any more of this talk, Murdo turned away, seized the nearest basket, and strode from the room as quickly as his wilted dignity allowed. “You could do worse, dear son of mine,” Niamh called after him. “Just you ponder that!”

The boat made landfall in the narrow cove below Cnoc Carrach on the western side of Hrolfsey. The house was built on the southeastern side of the cnoc, or hill, so that it might not be seen from the sea, but Murdo knew where it was, and his heart quickened at the thought that Ragna was so near. To his dismay, he found his hands trembled on the tiller as Peder and Hin readied the pole and anchor in preparation of coming alongside Lord Brusi's timber quay.

No one appeared to notice his excitement, however, and Murdo quickly busied himself with helping unload the boat. They were still about this chore when two servingmen and an ox-drawn cart appeared on the winding track leading down to the cove. “We saw your boat in the narrows,” the elder servant explained. “Lady Ragnhild sent us to help you.” Addressing Niamh, he said, “If it pleases you, my lady, you might go ahead to the house. It's for us to see to your possessions.”

Murdo's mother thanked the servants, but declined, saying, “There is no hurry. We will stay and help you.” She then directed Murdo to assist the servingmen, while Peder and Hin secured the ship. Owing to the steepness of the cliff, the cart could not reach the quay and so all the chests and baskets had to be carried half-way up the hill to the waiting wagon. This simple task seemed to take forever, and the sun was already disappearing behind the shoulder of the hills by the time the cart was
loaded and the oxen prodded into motion.

The visitors climbed the hill and walked the short distance to the house, and by the time they reached the yard, Murdo was almost faint with anticipation. His heart pounded in his chest and his vision swam; it was all he could do to keep from falling over at every step.

Ah, but his expectation was not misplaced. For no sooner had the cart come to a halt than the door to the great house opened and Ragna emerged, bearing a golden cup on a wooden tray. She stepped lightly into the yard, her limp visible only in the slight tilt and jiggle of the tray she carried. To Murdo, however, she seemed not so much to walk, as to glide a little above the ground.

Dressed in a simple white mantle edged with gleaming blue embroidery, and wearing a blue-embroidered girdle around her slender waist, she appeared taller than Murdo remembered, and even more beautiful.
She is always new,
he thought,
and always better than herself.
Indeed, her fair features seemed to glow in the setting sun, and her hair glinted red-gold in the dusky light. She was a creature of radiance and grace. Murdo drank in the sight of her in one prolonged gawk of amazed delight, and swore on his life that he had never seen anything so handsome, or so fine.

Ragna did not deign to glance at him, however, but directed her steps to his mother. “Welcome, Lady Niamh,” she said nicely. “We have been eagerly awaiting your arrival. Please,” she lifted the tray, “be refreshed after your journey.”

Lady Niamh inclined her head regally, accepted the offered cup, and raised it to her lips. She sipped elegantly and thanked Ragna for her kindness and courtesy. Only then did the young woman turn to address Murdo. “Be welcome, Master Murdo,” she said, offering him the tray; “the freedom of our hearth is your for as long as you care to stay.”

“I thank you, Mistress Ragna,” he replied, ducking his head as he took up the cup. He drank down a gulp of the sweet mead and replaced the golden vessel on the tray, whereupon Ragna, her lips twitching with private pleasure, turned once more to his mother.

“Lady Ragnhild is ready to receive you,” she said. Indicating the elder of the servants at the cart, she added, “Roli will see that your men are well settled in the servants' house. Would you like to follow me? I will take you to my lady's chamber.” With that, she led them into the house.

They entered a long, wood-panelled vestibule, off which two wide doors opened. Ragna chose the door on the left and showed them into the room where the Lady of Cnoc Carrach waited to welcome her visitors. The chamber was comfortable, with lime-washed walls to which ochre had been added for color, and a rug of woven wool on the smooth timbered floor; an oak screen closed off one corner of the room, and there was a small needlework tapestry hanging on the wall. Ragnhild, dressed in a rose-red cloak and mantle, was sitting in a chair beside the window, which was open to make the most of the failing light. Although the day had been balmy for the season, a small fire of coals burned in a brazier to ward off the chill which was seeping into the air with the coming of night. She glanced up from a tiny book she was reading, and smiled as her visitors entered the room; closing the book, she placed it on the window ledge and then opened her arms to greet her childhood friend.

The two women kissed, and embraced one another with a warmth of affection that made Murdo squirm slightly. But Ragna, having placed the tray and cup upon a nearby table, watched with obvious delight.

“Nia,” said Ragnhild, “it is happiness itself to see you again.
I do hope your journey was not too arduous.”

“Oh, Ragni—Ragni, dear friend,” replied his mother,—Murdo was surprised to hear them speak so familiarly to one another—“it is so good to be here. It has pleased me greatly to think we might spend these days together, and now that I am here, I am delighted.”

They hugged one another again, and Murdo averted his eyes. When he looked again, Lady Ragnhild was turning towards him. “And who is this handsome young man?” she inquired, as if she did not know who could be accompanying her friend. “This cannot be young Murdo! But of course, it is!”

She stepped before him, extending her arm. Murdo bowed politely and kissed her hand. “Murdo, greetings and welcome. It is so good of you to allow your mother and me the opportunity to see one another again.” She spoke as if he were the lord upon whose whim the celebration depended and, for all it was a simple device, Murdo found that he liked it.

“My lady, the pleasure is entirely mine,” he replied gallantly.

Whereupon, Lady Ragnhild endeared herself further by saying, “As you will be the only man among us, you shall have the lord's place while you are here.”

The only man, thought Murdo; that had not occurred to him.

“I do so hope you will not become bored with our female chatter. I have instructed my daughter to do whatever she can to make your stay more pleasant.”

Although Murdo would have given his left arm to see Ragna's reaction to this announcement, he dared not glance her way. Instead, he forced himself to look straight into Lady Ragnhild's eyes and reply in what he hoped was his most winsome manner. “You are most considerate, my lady. But I beg you, take no thought for me. I am certain I shall find the com
pany here endlessly agreeable,” he told her, thinking he had acquitted himself very well.

The Lady of Cnoc Carrach gave him a pleasant smile, and turned once more to his mother. “I know you have had a long day, and that you must be tired from your journey. Therefore, we will not presume upon you for supper. Instead, we will allow you to dine alone tonight, so that you may rest and restore yourselves.”

Murdo's heart sank. After waiting so long to be here, the thought that he would have to wait yet one more night to be with Ragna was beyond endurance. Desperately, he tried to think of some way to divert this disaster, but his mind refused to yield any suitable reply.

His mother redeemed the day.

“How kind you are, Ragni,” she offered smoothly, “and how thoughtful. But we would consider the pleasure of your company the best restorative of all.” She deferred to Murdo with a slight tilt of her chin. “Unless my son prefers otherwise, we would be pleased to take supper with you tonight.”

“By all means,” added Murdo, hoping he did not sound over-eager. He glimpsed Ragna out of the corner of his eye—was she laughing at him?

“Splendid!” cried Lady Ragnhild, as if this were the very thing she yearned to hear. “I will instruct the cooks. Meanwhile, Ragna will take you to your rooms, and I will have my servingmaids bring your belongings shortly.”

Ragna led them from the room then, and they proceeded further down the long vestibule to the end where a turret of steps spiralled up to the floor above. Upon climbing the stairs, they discovered a chamber faced with three wooden doors. “Your room, Lady Niamh,” she said, indicating the door directly before them. “This will be your room,” she continued,
indicating the left-hand door for Murdo. “And my room is there,” she said, lifting her hand to the right-hand door. “Now then, if there is nothing you require, I will leave you to rest before supper.”

When Ragna had gone, Murdo's mother turned to him and said, “I am glad we have come. You will not mind being the only man, will you?” Tilting her head in Ragna's direction, she said, “No doubt Ragna will help you find a way to enjoy your stay.”

Murdo, embarrassed to have his most intimate sentiments announced so blatantly, turned swiftly to his door and pushed it open. “I think I shall be content here,” he agreed distantly, peering into the room.

“Oh, aye, I am certain of it.” His mother bade him take a moment's rest, and went into her room, leaving Murdo to himself. He stepped over the threshold and closed the door behind him. The room was mostly in shadow now; there was a fireplace and many candles, but none of them were lit. The high-sided bed was built into the wall directly across from him; the linen appeared clean, and the curtain was drawn back. A small round table stood in the center of the room, and there was a three-legged stool beside the bed. The walls were limed to make the most of the scant light through the small, square window. There were iron sconces on the wall, and a sheepskin before the bare hearth.

All in all, the room was not so different from his own at home. Yes, he thought, I shall be content here—especially knowing that Ragna is sleeping only a few paces away. As he was not particularly tired, he decided to have a look around, and so crept from his room and back down the stairs. He found his way to the vestibule and walked outside.

The sun was down, but the sky was still light, the few clouds violet-tinted in the twilight. Two or three stars were already
glowing low on the horizon; the breeze was rising out of the west and it smelled of rain. There was no one about as Murdo proceeded through the yard, looking at the various buildings; he stopped before the barn, but it was dark inside so he did not go in, continuing around the house instead. There were two fields hard by the house, and in one of these ploughing had begun for the spring planting. Other fields and grazing lands lay further off, and more, no doubt, were scattered among the surrounding hills. He saw pens for sheep and cattle—though none for pigs—and, glimmering darkly at the foot of the nearest hill, a pond for ducks and geese.

Lord Brusi's farm, though larger, was much like his father's, Murdo concluded, and wondered how much land Brusi owned, and how many vassals Cnoc Carrach maintained. As his circular path brought him once more into the yard, the scent of wood smoke told him the hearth fires had been lit, and it would soon be time to eat. There was a low stone trough a few paces from the door, so he took a drink and, remembering that he was an honored guest, washed his hands before going inside.

Candles had been lit in the vestibule and, curious about what lay behind the right-hand door, he lifted the wooden latch, pushed the door open a crack and looked inside. It was the great hall, and the size of it gratified Murdo, for it seemed at least twice as large as his father's hall at Hrafnbú. The ceiling was high and open, and there were iron sconces hanging from the beams and rooftrees. The hearth alone took up the whole of the further wall and it was laid with a single immense slab of stone; three more huge slabs formed the opening, looking like the uprights and lintel of the doorway to a cavern. The lintel was handsome gray-green slate which had been chiseled smooth, and carved with the intertwined knotwork of the old Celts.

Two long black boards on trestles ran side-by-side the length of the hall to end at a third, shorter board before the hearth. Both long tables had benches either side, but the short table had benches only on the side nearest the hearth. Iron sconces lined either wall, and iron candletrees and candleholders of various kinds were scattered around the room in profusion. New straw had been laid on the floor, filling the room with the fresh scent of the field.

“The hall is being readied for the feast,” said a soft voice behind him.

Murdo turned quickly. “Ragna, I—”

It was not Ragna who stood before him, however, but one of the servingmaids: slight and dark, her hair pulled back and bound in a length of white cloth. She was holding a trencher on which lay a small loaf of bread and bowl of salt. “You are to sup in my lady's chamber tonight,” the maid explained cheerfully.

“I see,” he replied.

The two stood for a moment looking at one another, and Murdo, unused to such bold scrutiny from female servants, shifted uneasily from one foot to the other.

“You are Murdo,” the maid informed him.

“Yes.”

“I am called Tailtiu,” she said. “I serve Mistress Ragna, and my mother served Lady Ragnhild—until she has died two years ago. One day, Mistress Ragna will be a lady, and I will serve her just like my mother before me, you see.”

“Yes,” Murdo answered; then, fearing he was repeating himself, added, “I see.”

“You are from Dýrness,” the maid blithely continued, “and your father is one of Jarl Erlend's noblemen—just like Lord Brusi.”

“He is that.”

“Lord Brusi and his sons has gone on the pilgrimage to the Holy Land with your father and brothers,” she said, warming to the discussion. “You were not allowed to go, for you has not taken arms yet, for all you are too young.”

“I am sixteen summers now,” Murdo announced haughtily. He stared hard at the impertinent creature, and wondered how she had come by her information and whether he should send her away. But she was not his to command, so he stood firm and hoped his scowl would drive her off.