“Yesterday, when Ylva was shutting in the chickens. I’d told her to keep her face well-hidden, but the boy came to her. She tried to stop him, but you know how young men are. He wouldn’t take no for an answer.” Astrid gave a shuddering sigh. “He pulled off her scarf to kiss her and saw the soiled bandages at her neck, the blister on her cheek.”
I imagined the whole of Svolvaen would know by now.
Astrid pushed aside a falling tear. “I can hardly blame them, but I fear for Ylva. What future is there for her? Even if we cure her of this, people have long memories.”
My heart ached for the girl. No doubt, she thought herself in love. The breaking of her betrothal must seem the end of all that mattered.
I put my arms around Astrid’s shoulders as she stifled a sob.
If I failed to heal her daughter it would be the end of more than Ylva’s hopes for marriage.
8
The harvest was among the best Svolvaen had ever seen, a mild spring having encouraged orchard blossoms, followed by warm summer ripening the barley. This was safely stacked in the barn, with hay in another; no matter how deep the snow, the cattle would have their fodder. We’d laid down pears and apples for the winter, between straw, and conserved plums in their own syrup, packed tightly in jars. Every house had its provision of smoked herring, root vegetables and honey, its own store of mead and of ale. No matter what storms came, Svolvaen wouldn’t starve.
When all had been gathered in, Jarl Gunnolf invited Svolvaen to join in a day of festivity, commencing with one to one combat, to be followed by falconry and then carousing, long into the night.
The clouds were thick overhead and the wind blew hard but the rain held off. The men outnumbered their womenfolk; perhaps the sport was not to their taste or they had other duties to attend to.
As I joined Helka, I looked among the crowd, for those who wore a cowl to cover their neck, my imagination thinking always of the affliction I believed was travelling among them. Astrid waved to me, with her toddling son lifted in her arms, that he might better see. The baby, I supposed, she’d left with Ylva, at home.
The jarl sat upon a raised dais, wearing his customary black, including a cloak of dark brocade, trimmed thickly in silver fur. Beside him, Lady Asta was radiant in a gown of palest white, embroidered in gold and yellow, smiling at her people, applauding each man who stepped forward to indicate his participation.
She rested her hands upon the growing babe within her, the swell of her belly visible. Gunnolf, too, appeared well content in showing off his lady’s fertile condition.
“The jarl will preside over pairs of men, in successive bouts,” Helka explained, “Until only one remains.”
Eirik waited until all others had presented before showing his own willingness. Stripped to the waist, with his hair braided into a top knot, he stood taller than the rest. I’d seen him wield his sword and axe, and had tended to him on return from battle, streaked with other men’s blood, but had never witnessed him wrestle skin on skin.
“Odin and Thor and all the gods are among us!” Gunnolf announced, slitting the throat of a sturdy hog. “Just as this life-force soaks the soil, so doth ours, shed in combat. May our deeds always be brave and glorious, so that all may know of the greatness of Svolvaen.”
There was a mighty cheer at the squealing of the pig, and the gush of crimson that flooded at Gunnolf’s feet. The animal would spend the rest of the day roasting, in readiness for the evening feast.
As the tournament began, I saw that agility counted for as much as strength. Each took up the great horn of honeyed mead, drinking deeply before they commenced, grappling within a designated square, no more than five steps wide; the first to pin their rival to the ground for the count of ten took the bout.
The shouts were deafening, roaring approval of each triumph. The outcome of some pairings was decided almost immediately; others left their opponents breathless, staggering from exertion, sweat glistening upon their hard-muscled bodies, sinews straining in pursuit of conquest.
Eirik seemed to win his matches with little effort, having not only skill in the various holds but the might to lift another man from his feet. Seeing him wide-legged in victory, the taut lines of his abdomen visible, I thrilled at the power of him, both as my lover and a warrior.
None seemed to mind his ascendancy. He allowed each a fair chance to demonstrate his prowess before asserting his own. Eirik helped them to stand tall, clasping his combatants about the shoulders in congratulation on a match well fought.
It was clear that he delighted in conquest as much as any man but valued fellowship above all, and these were his men, whom he had led across the seas, to return with riches and renown.
If Gunnolf was piqued to see his younger brother cast all before him, he dissembled well, giving his own bellows of approval.
When the final bout was declared, Eirik faced his old friend, Olaf, both men muddied from the many matches they’d already claimed. What Olaf lacked in stature, he made up for in lightness of foot, twisting repeatedly from Eirik’s grasp, to the mirth of those watching. Eirik could have taken Olaf to the ground at any time but chose, instead, to revel in festive merriment, indulging Olaf’s antics to avoid him.
Gunnolf followed closely, his eyes alight. Had Eirik been, at last, beaten, he would have had trouble concealing his satisfaction, I thought. There was another too, whose eyes were all for Eirik; Bodil had pushed her way to the front, carrying the fair child. She stood, neither cheering nor clapping but watching the vigorous performance of her former lover with quiet intensity. Was she recalling, I wondered, the sweat of their own bed-wrestling, her fingers pressed to the flesh of his buttocks, her body submitting beneath the brawn of his?
My temper flared at the imagining, for Eirik was mine, and the jealousy in my belly burned.
At last, with an indomitable cry, Eirik gripped Olaf by ankle and wrist, obliging him to bend in acrobatic fashion, curled upwards from the ground. As the count neared ten, Eirik gave his rival a playful tweak of the nose and pulled him to his feet.
The clamour was great indeed, with all shouting Eirik’s name, and I saw a shadow pass over Gunnolf’s face.
Eirik, however, played no more the fool, kneeling rather, before the jarl. “My victories or losses are in the hands of the gods. If I have strength, brother, it is through their grace, and I offer it in your service. Send me where you will, upon any mission, and I’ll bring glory to your name and to that of Svolvaen.”
It was a speech delivered from the heart; when Eirik lifted his head, his eyes were bright with fervour. Once more, the men received him with thunderous approval and it required the jarl’s raised hand to gain the quiet he needed to reply.
