The Prow Beast (21 page)

‘I will tell him a harder one, then,’ he growled back and everyone laughed at his new, deep voice, so that his cheeks flushed. He looked at me, those odd eyes glittering like agate.

‘I have a thought on how to get Styrbjorn away,’ he said, then inclined his head in a gracious little bow.

‘If my lord is pleased to hear it,’ he added and folk chuckled. I heard Finn mutter, though, and did not need to hear it clearly to know what he was saying: that boy is older than stones.

‘A prince’s wisdom is always welcome,’ I said and he grinned his sharp-toothed mouse grin and then laid it out. It was a good plan, put him at the centre of matters and at no little risk – which was what the fame-hungry little wolf cub wanted – and gave the skill and strength of it to Finn. I looked at Finn after Crowbone had finished.

‘Can you do this?’

Finn’s grin was the same one seen an instant before fangs closed on a kill and folk chuckled at so eloquent an answer with not a word spoken.

It seemed less of a good plan in the flickering red roar of Pallig’s feasting. He sat on my high seat flanked by two big men in ringmail and helms who scowled at having to miss the best of the feast because of this duty. Pallig beamed greasily while his men growled and gorged and threw bones at one another, or grabbed the female thralls who stumbled in with platters of mutton boiled outside in a stone-lined pit heated by rocks.

I sat on a bench directly across the pitfire from Pallig, horn-paired with Crowbone for the feasting. None of my own men were here and Pallig knew why – they were with the ship, pointedly kept there because I did not trust him. I had already noted that, while Pallig’s women were clustered round him, there was no sign of Ljot, nor of the two bearcoats, last of the beasts, it seemed. Styrbjorn, his mouth in a thin, tight line, sat clenched in on himself on a lower bench and far enough away from the door that he could not make a run for it if he chose.

A skald had been wintering here, a man with a lean face and a body thin as gruel. His name was Helgi and he claimed the by-name of Mannvitsbrekka – Wisdom-Slope – though it was clear any deep thinking he had was long since slid away, for he persisted in trotting out the same old stuff he had most likely been giving them for months. Even the commands of Pallig failed to stop men deep in their ale from flinging bread and bone at him.

Crowbone looked at me with his odd eyes and grinned his mouse grin. Then he stood up.

‘I have a tale or two,’ he said.

Silence fell almost at once, for the marvellous tales of this man-boy were fame-richer than my own supposed heroics. Graciously, Pallig waved a hand for him to continue.

Crowbone told tales of Dyl U’la-Spegill, which was perfect for the audience he had. They were old tales and still told today, for the laughter in them. Dyl U’la-Spegill is sometimes a youth, sometimes an old man and his very name is as much a whispered mystery as runes; there were those present, I saw, who fancied Crowbone was Dyl U’la-Spegill himself and I could not have refuted it if asked, for he held them as if enchanted.

‘Once,’ Crowbone said into the silence, ‘there was a man down on his luck – we shall call him Ljot – who was given a piece of bread. Hoping this was a sign from Asgard’s finest, he went to the market stalls and begged, thinking some meat or a little fish would go well with his bread. They all turned him away with nothing, but Ljot saw a large kettle of soup cooking over the fire. He held his piece of bread over the steaming pot, hoping to thus capture a bit of flavour from the good-smelling vapour.’

Folk chuckled – those, I was thinking, who knew how it felt to be that hungry. Pallig glared them to silence.

‘Suddenly the owner of the soup – let us call him Brand – seized the unhappy Ljot by the arm and accused him of stealing soup,’ Crowbone continued. ‘Poor Ljot was afraid at this. “I took no soup,” he said. “I was only smelling it.” “Then you must pay for the smell,” answered Brand. Poor Ljot had no money, so the angry Brand dragged him before his jarl.’

‘Is that where Ljot has gone, then?’ shouted someone and I knew Finn’s voice when I heard it. Pallig snarled a smile into the laughter that followed and Crowbone went on with his tale.

‘Now,’ he said, ‘it so happened that Dyl U’la-Spegill was visiting with this jarl at the time and he heard Brand’s accusation and Ljot’s explanation. “So you demand payment for the smell of your soup?” he asked as the jarl struggled to come to a decision on the matter.

‘“I do,” insisted Brand.

‘“Then I myself will pay you,” said Dyl and he drew two silver rings from his arm and juggled them in his hand so that they rang – then he put them back, much to Brand’s annoyance.

‘“You are paid,” Dyl told the man. “The sound of silver for the smell of soup.”’

They laughed and thumped the tables at that one and, hidden by the noise and uproar, Finn slid to my side briefly and nodded, then rolled his shoulders.

‘They will choose the bearcoat called Stammkel, the one they call Hilditonn – War Tooth,’ he said quietly to me. I did not ask him if this would be a problem.

‘Once,’ Crowbone began again, ‘Dyl U’la-Spegill lay in the shade of an ancient oak tree, thinking as he always did, on the greatness of the gods and the mightiness of Odin.’

There was a loud throat-clearing sound from down the table, where the Christ priest sat and, for a moment, all heads turned to him, so that he flushed at being the centre of such attention.

‘God will not be mocked,’ he offered and Crowbone shrugged.

‘Then let him sit elsewhere,’ he replied, which brought laughter – though muted, for there were more than a few Christ men here. Pallig craned a little to look down the benches at the priest, who drew in his neck a little and, after a pause, the jarl turned his poached-egg eyes back to Crowbone and beamed.

‘Go on, little man,’ he said expansively, ‘for this is better stuff than we have had for some time.’

At which the skald scowled.

‘Dyl,’ Crowbone began, ‘considered the wisdom of Odin – and then questioned whether it was indeed wise that such a great tree as this be created to bear only tiny acorns. Look at the stout stem and strong limbs, which could easily carry, say, fat marrows that sprout from spindly stems along the ground. Should the mighty oak not bear such as a marrow and the acorn creep in the mud?’

‘I have often thought so myself,’ the skald interrupted desperately, but voices howled him down.

‘So thinking,’ Crowbone continued, ‘Dyl went to sleep – only to be awakened by an acorn that fell from the tree, striking him on his forehead. “Aha,” he cried. “Now I see the wisdom of One-Eye – if the world had been created according to Dyl U’la-Spegill, I would have been marrow-killed for sure.”’

Crowbone paused and stared at the priest.

‘Never again did Dyl U’la-Spegill question the wisdom of Odin,’ he finished and the hall banged tables and hooted; a few bones flew at the priest – in a good-natured way and Pallig stood and held up his hands for silence, planning no doubt to lay into them for treating the priest so poorly. Just as the wobbling-bellied jarl opened his mouth to the silence, he broke wind noisily.

Folk sniggered and Pallig went white, then red. Crowbone cleared his throat a little and spoke into the embarrassment.

‘There was once a jarl who farted dishonour to himself forever,’ he began and Pallig’s face had thunder on it – but there were enough drunks in the hall to cheer stupidly at another Crowbone tale, so he sat back down, silent and dangerously black-browed.

‘It was at his own wedding,’ Crowbone went on. ‘The bride was displayed in all her gold to the women, who could not take their eyes off her for the jealousy. At last the bridegroom was summoned to stand by her side, while the
godi
stood ready with his blessing hammer.’

At this point, the priest stood up and made the sign of the cross and there were as many who joined in as those who hooted. Say what you like about Christ priests, say they are as annoying as a cleg-bite in summer, say they have minds so narrow it is a wonder anything can live there – but never say they are afraid. I seldom encountered one who had no courage.

Crowbone favoured him with a look until the priest had finished and was sitting. Then he cleared his throat and went on with his tale.

‘The jarl rose slowly and with dignity from his bench,’ he said and then paused, looking round the breathless company.

‘In so doing,’ he went on portentously, ‘he let fly a great and terrible fart, for he was overfull of meat and drink. It was a Thor-wind, that one, a mighty cracking.’

‘I think I know this jarl,’ shouted someone, anonymous in the dark and Pallig shifted in his seat a little, then braided his scowl into an uneasy smile. Crowbone waited a little, then went on.

‘Of course, it was a great insult to the bride and her kin and, in fear of blood-feud and the ruin of a good day and dowry, all the guests immediately turned to their neighbours and talked aloud, pretending to have heard nothing.

‘The mortified jarl, in that instant, was so overcome by shame that he turned away from the bridal chamber and as if to answer a call of nature. He went down to the courtyard, saddled his mare and rode off, weeping bitterly through the night. In time he reached Dovrefell, went on across it to the very snows, where he sacrificed the horse and lived among the Sami for years.’

‘Safe enough there,’ observed a growler morosely, ‘since they are all expert breakers of wind in that country.’

He was hissed to silence and Crowbone went on with his tale.

‘Finally, this unlucky jarl was overcome with longing for his native land – like that of a lover pining for his beloved it would not be denied, though it nearly cost him his life. He sneaked away from the Sami without taking leave and made his way alone and dressed in the rags of a seer, enduring a thousand hardships of hunger, thirst and fatigue, braving a thousand dangers from trolls and wyrm and
draugr.
He eventually came to his old home and, eyes brimming with tears, walked among the houses of it, unknown, pretending to be an old seer of no account.’

Crowbone paused; there was not a breath of sound.

‘He was delighted with being home,’ he went on, ‘thought of announcing himself and abjectly grovelling in apology for his foolishness in running away for so trivial a reason, no doubt forgotten a day or two after it had happened. Just as he had made up his mind to do just that, he passed a hut and heard the voice of a young girl saying, “Mother, tell me what day was I born on, for there is an old seer outside and I want him to tell my fortune.”

‘The mother did not hesitate. “My daughter,” she said, “you were born on the very night the old jarl farted.” No sooner had the jarl heard these words than he rose up from the bench and fled for the last time, for his fart was now a date that would be remembered for ever and ever.’

The laughter was long, though Pallig had to force his out. For all that, he peeled off an armring and tossed it regally to the young Crowbone, who caught it deftly. The skald’s head drooped like a wilting stalk, seeing his own riches melt from him.

‘Good tales, well told,’ he announced. ‘If you continue the same way, I will give you the one off my other arm.’

Crowbone laughed, then looked sideways at me a moment and I nodded.

‘I have no more tales of momentous farts,’ he said to the assembled company; a few of them groaned in mock disappointment and Crowbone held up one hand with the ring in it.

‘I could tell of Thor fishing for the World Serpent,’ he said slowly, looking pointedly at Pallig, whose back rested on that very carving. He shifted nervously and caught my eye – I hoped my old high seat dug splinters in him.

‘On the other hand,’ Crowbone went on slowly, ‘tales of strength like that are best witnessed at first hand. Happily, we have one of the Oathsworn here with such Thor strength.’

On cue, Finn stood up and spread his arms wide as if to embrace them all, turning left and right and into as many jeers as cheers – though the jeers were muted, for most had heard of Finn’s fame.

‘I am Finn Horsehead from Skane,’ he declared, jutting out his badger-beard. ‘When I fart, walls tumble. Dragons use my pizzle to perch like birds on a branch.’

I watched Pallig, saw his eyes slide to one side and jerk his chin at a thrall, who immediately got up and went outside. Now comes the hard bit, I thought.

‘So – a feat of strength, then, Finn Horsehead,’ Pallig declared, grinning in a twisted way, vicious as a rat in a barrel. ‘Arm wrestling perhaps?’

‘With you, Jarl Pallig?’ Finn asked and managed to put enough sneer in that to make Pallig flush and start half out of his seat. Then he subsided and worked a smile back to his face.

‘My champion,’ he announced and, as if magicked up, the man himself came into the hall, bringing all the heads round. Breath hung, suspended and frozen.

He was ring-coated, of course, with a helm worked in silver and he had to duck coming under the lintel. With him came a long axe, mark of a Chosen Man of the jarl’s retinue and he carried it as easily as a child does a stick.

‘Stammkel War Tooth,’ Pallig announced and the hall rang with cheers from all his oarmates. Pallig looked at the great flat, stolid face of Stammkel, framed by a wild tangle of ribbon-tied beard like flame and the fancy helmet he wore, all silver and dented iron.

‘This is Finn Horsehead of the Oathsworn,’ Pallig went on. ‘He wishes to arm wrestle you.’

Stammkel grunted and peeled off his helmet, so that a great shock of red hair sprang up like a bush. Finn regarded him up and down, then turned back to Pallig.

‘Some mistake, surely,’ he said. ‘Is the father not available?’

The hall liked that and showed it with catcalls and table thumping. Stammkel may have glowered and narrowed his eyes, but it was hard to tell in that face. His voice was clear enough, all the same.

‘Arm wrestling is hardly a fair contest with this one,’ he rumbled, then stared straight at Finn out of the red tangle of his face. ‘I would kiss one of Odin’s Daughters with him, but I fancy he would be afraid of her lip.’

I felt my bowels drop, for this had not been the plan; Finn did not so much as blink. Into the silence that followed came the sound of Pallig clearing his throat.