Forged in Blood Page 21

  The boys are just as bold and ready for fun. They shilly barefoot up the mast. Once at the top, they dangle recklessly from the head of the pulley-rope. As their friends watch and cheer them on, they slide down the mast from a giddy height. They land with a thud on deck, protesting, as they stumble to their feet and rub their bruises, that no great harm has been done.

  Baldr and Kru — on ship-watch from dawn to dusk — are willing play-mates of small infants and toddlers on the beached ship. Dropping little ones from the prow, gently, for the thrill of their lives; chasing them leap-frog over the thwarts; holding them safe by the hand, while they toddle on tiny feet along the gunnels. The two crewmen make mute signs to and fro. They have the youngsters in stitches, laughing at their mimicry. The children are unaware that Kru is without speech or hearing. They think that his signs are done for their merriment, and are all part of the ‘ship-game’.

  *

  Dantzk and Halpin have made themselves useful, helping men from the Rath to empty fish-traps along the river-banks, and carry the catch back to the settlement. Of course, while they tip the contents of their baskets on the rush mats, they linger and chat with fish-girls and young widows from the settlement, whose job it is to gut and clean fish at the water’s edge.

  For five nights running since we came to the isle, shad-fish have been caught in the willow traps in great numbers, slippery lamprey and eels as well — too many to be eaten fresh. Fish are gutted, hung on stakes, and reeked for days in the shared smoke-house, where an old woman, shod in singed wooden clogs, and muffled in a shawl, endlessly rakes simmering peat on the clachan floor so that it burns smoky, without flame, to cook the fish.

  *

  Since we landed on the isle — five days now, and not a word from Dunchad — Hrut, our young crewman, has been inseparable from Fjak. He follows at the older man’s tail like a blooded whelp that becomes attached to an older dog in a pack of hounds. Fjak is often heard to complain that he would rather be on his own and not have to suffer constant niggling questions from Hrut, but it’s not as if he makes any great effort to escape the younger man’s attentions.

  The two crewmates have taken to playing quoits at the northernmost edge of the isle. For their ‘pitch and toss’ they have occupied one of the empty horse paddocks. The paddocks are ‘over the palings’, as men of the isle say, that is, outside the wooden defences of the Rath. Fjak has had a new set of quoits made by Tioc’s ironsmith — the ironwork paid for in silver hack out of his purse.

  In the quoit games there is ‘friendly’ betting between Hrut and Fjak on best of eleven irons thrown, but it is at low stakes, or so we have been told — more, says Fjak mischievously, to keep the game interesting than hard betting. He boasts that he is teaching Hrut how to cheat.

  *

  Today is a holy day of the week for the people of the Rath. As folk disperse from Sabbath rituals in front of Saint Bhraan’s cross, a gang of local lad heads out to the horse paddocks to watch Fjak and Hrut at play. They have heard of the quoits. They are on the lookout for fun and mischief on a day free from work. If I know Fjak, he will soon entice them to join the game — and then the stakes will rise.

  *

  First day of the week; morning after Sabbath, the gates of the Rath open for work at dawn. Cess-pails are emptied and drinking-water drawn from the river at reed-ford. Laundry linens taken downstream to be beaten on the rocks. There are no slaves at Inis-tioc and these jobs are done by the youngest girls able to do the task in each family clachan.

  Hrut and Fjak slip off quietly, carrying their iron quoits in a bag. They are on the go long before herders drive out their black cattle into the meadows for grazing. Last night, after dark, I saw Hrut and Fjak skulking behind the clachan-hall. It made me suspicious. They had their heads together, speaking in whispers. They caught sight of me, got shifty and made off.

  Now that they are out early with the quoits, I have an inkling of what might be going on. They will have gone to the horse paddocks to practise ‘over the palings’, while no one is around. Their object today will not be to win hack from each other, but in secret to hone their skills of ‘pitch and toss’ and hatch their plan. Fjak will have Hrut pitching long throws — the longer the better — pitching one after another till the lad from Ekvith has length and direction near perfect. Hrut is tall and has strong arms — he has the bull-neck of a shipbuilder. With practice, and with Fjak coaching him, Thrandt’s son will be able to toss the iron quoits much farther than the unpractised local lads.

  ‘Where are you off to so early, Thralson?’ shouts Baldr. He and Kru are sitting at the rugged cross.

  ‘To join Fjak in a game of quoits,’ I reply. I wink at Kru and hurry past the holy cross of Saint Bhraan, briskly picking up my step, heading for the paddocks.

  Fjak is up to no good. I am more and more certain that he has a scam in mind. Fjak knows that Hrut has nothing in his purse. He will probably target the young lads from the Rath and swindle them, if he can, to fill Hrut’s purse and his.

  One way that he might trick the unsuspecting locals is to pretend that Hrut is useless at ‘pitching long’. Fjak will turn on the charm. He will entice lads from the Rath into placing wagers on themselves and on others in a test of ‘pitching long’ against our young crewman.

  During the game, Hrut will wait for a nod from Fjak. After a few missed throws to lure the lads into foolhardy wagers, Thrandt’s son will unexpectedly find his rhythm, clear all before him, and win all bets in sight. If I am right about Fjak, and that — or something like it — is his game, he has to be warned off. I don’t want to get him in trouble with the folk of the isle. That’s the last thing we need. Fjak will not take a telling from me — unless I threaten him. But if that is what it takes, I shall do it. We can’t have him causing ructions with Tioc’s people.

  As I come closer to the paddocks, I am in two minds whether or not to turn back. It is not my place to tell crewmates what they should do. But if I allow Fjak to get away with a swindle, he will bleed the lads dry, and he won’t let it rest after that; he will pressure them to honour their debts. He will make them cough up before we sail downriver on the Meuris.

  Here at Inis-tioc people have no hack to speak of — no call for silver in hand. On the river-isle, barter and exchange is the order of the day, and there is no such thing as silver coin among the Erse-men, this far north from Vadrar-fiord. To pay off their debts, the lads will part with something precious — perhaps trade a hunting knife or a good blade — or, worse still, they may end up filching from their families.

  That’s when the trouble will start.

  *

  No sign of Fjak and Hrut in the higher paddock where they played their game of quoits yesterday. To my surprise I find Tioc’s wife alone in the empty mud-patch. Shaynat has a satchel at her hip. The satchel, with flap open, is attached by a leather strap to her waist. The strap is pulled tight, and tied in front. It draws my eye to the woman’s tall, slim figure — as tall and slim as her daughters. Two riding-horses, already saddled for their intended riders, have been put out in the lower paddock. Stooks of hay have been spread over the ground — grazing is sparse in the paddock — and a manger is hooked over a top rail of the fence. The feeding trough is freshly filled with a rough fodder of straw and oats. A dapple-grey and a dun, both horses short and sturdy, chomp flank by flank with their noses in the manger. They face away from me down a slope overlooking reed-ford.

  Coming closer, I notice a hawk facing Shaynat, perched opposite her on the paddock fence. The hawk is full-grown, but small, a sign of the male bird, a sleek tiercel with red tips on his tail-quills. Tioc’s wife sees me coming, and so does the hawk. Both have piercing eyes that neither look at me, nor look away. I lean my elbows on the paddock fence, and stand there without moving, so as not to distract them. Bird and woman ignore me and yet I sense that they are keenly aware of my presence.

  Shaynat begins to spin a feathered lure above her head. The lure — a tiny bundle made to lo
ok like a bird in flight — is bound with wood-pigeon’s feathers, white, blue and grey, to attract the hawk. The mock prey, spinning in ever wider circles, is attached to Shaynat’s hand by a reel of linen twine. I move back to keep a safe distance from its spinning arc.

  A whirring sound from twine and feathers fills the air. Shaynat spins the lure, and as she spins, she shortens the line gradually, rolling the twine around her fingers to bring the feathered lure closer. Finally she draws the mock pigeon into the gauntlet on her left hand and proffers it aloft for the bird to see. The hawk takes to the wing. He hovers about Shaynat’s head, flapping his wings in a rush of feathers that a bird of prey makes before landing. Draught from his wings tousles the woman’s hair, and gives her black tresses a mad, frizzled look. The tiercel comes to rest on her hand. He plucks at the lure, plucks with beak and talons. Shaynat takes a nugget of flesh from under the flap of her meat-satchel. The hawk feeds from her hand. To confine the bird, she hitches jesses to his claws. He watches her and allows himself to be secured by a strap to her gauntleted hand.

  Tioc’s wife walks slowly towards me with pride in her eyes. She is coming to the paddock fence to show off the tiercel. I would have said a word of praise for the bird, but she speaks first. ‘If you are looking for your crewmates, young Thralson, they are gone.’ She strokes speckled feathers on the hawk’s quivering throat. ‘They were disturbing my bird. I had to chase them away.’

  ‘Thanks — though I didn’t pass them on the way.’

  ‘No,’ says she. ‘They didn’t return by the palings. They went off to reed-ford. I saw them cross the river not long since. You can catch them, if you hurry.’

  ‘Not important. I will see them later.’

  ‘Your friends are keen,’ says Shaynat. ‘They were out first thing with their bag of quoits. Idle hands, I suppose, need to find something to do. If Hakon’s ship was on the move, your crewmates would be kept busy.’

  ‘And out of mischief.’

  Tioc’s wife gives me a piercing glance. The tiercel, pert and alert on her gloved hand, turns his head in my direction, as if he too is searching me out, his eyes unblinking.

  ‘That bald-headed crewman of yours was annoyed to find me here,’ says Shaynat. ‘To be honest, he has something about him that I don’t much like — he seems fearful or conniving. Perhaps an old fella’s soul turns sour after too many years at sea.’

  ‘Take no notice of Fjak. He is a cold fish. He has a dour face come rain or shine. He would have meant you no harm, and no disrespect.’

  ‘Maybe he was fearful of the hawk,’ replies Shaynat.

  ‘Or the hawk was spooked by him. He is a fine bird — great wingspan for a tiercel and powerful. But tell me — whenever he flies off, how can you be certain he will come back?’

  Again Tioc’s wife looks in my eyes searchingly. ‘I am never certain of his return — nor is he!

  ‘How can that be? Surely, by repeating a task over and over, you train the tiercel to be obedient. You must make a whistle or gesture, one that he will recognise, or give a call that he will respond to — like for a hound.’

  ‘A hawk is not a hound,’ replies Shaynat. ‘I don’t take the hawk’s will for granted. The bird is not subject to me. Once out of my hand, he is free. Each flight he takes to pursue his prey is a new conquest — for him and for me. And the return is up to him — it is in his gift. ’

  ‘So is it down to trust?’

  ‘Trust, partly — and to free will — his and mine,’ replies Shaynat.

  The hawk becomes restless in her hand. Tioc’s wife releases strap and jesses that confine him.

  ‘He senses something?’

  ‘Yes,’ she replies. ‘He has to go! And I must free him! Watch!’

  Shaynat lifts her hand and launches the bird into the air. The tiercel opens his wings to full span. His red tail-feathers fan behind; they glisten like flames in the sunshine. The hawk has his throat into the wind. He turns back his talons, tucks them under his feathers; and soars into the clear morning air.

  We watch him fly across the river and roam free. He circles high above the water-meadows, a distant speck in the sky.

  ‘Is he after conies?’ I ask.

  ‘More likely leverets running in the open, out from their burrows,’ she replies. ‘Young hares go crazy at this time of year. They dart around blindly in the sunshine, unaware of the danger above.’

  ‘When the hawk returns, will he land on your glove? Maybe he won’t feel safe, while I am here? I don’t want to put him off.’

  ‘No, Ostman!’ Shaynat searches me with her deep eyes. I feel under scrutiny — in the same way, as when Hethrun would question me over some youthful shenanigans that I had got up to at Suthyre. ‘No, Ostman,’ She says it again. ‘You won’t put him off.’

  ‘Ostman! I am not an Ostman!’

  Shaynat smiles at my outburst. ‘Well, you dress like an Ostman, with serk and breeches, and you swagger like a ship’s lubber from overseas, so why shouldn’t I take you for an Ostman?’

  ‘I grew up as an Easterling, yes. But, apart from that, I can’t say that I’m from this place or that. My da was born a slave. He never knew his folks or discovered where they were from.’

  ‘And your ma?’

  ‘Erse by birth. Taken by Easterlings during a raid — she was little more than a girl.’

  ‘The poor thing — did she suffer at their hands?’

  ‘Quite the opposite. She was cared for and loved. Da earned his freedom the same summer as the raid, and he took Ma for his wife.’

  ‘Your ma, where was she from? Where exactly? Who were her people?’

  ‘She would never tell us. As far as I know, she never spoke of it with Da. She shut off her native land from her mind, and her birth family too, when she embraced her new life. What else could she do?’

  Tioc’s wife nods. It encourages me to go on.

  ‘Ma wanted to put it behind her. She loved Da dearly, and us too. She didn’t want to reproach Da or blame him for what had happened. Da is dead now, but still Ma won’t speak of it.’

  ‘Ah, she is alive.’ Shaynat ponders a moment. ‘You have brothers and sisters alive too?’

  ‘Yes, in the ice-lands.’

  ‘The ice-lands? Where are the ice-lands? Is that a place?’

  ‘Mountains and islands in the middle of the ocean, two weeks west from Erinland — could be three or four weeks sailing if weather is against the ship.’

  Tioc’s wife shrugs as if she has heard enough to satisfy her curiosity. She scans the skies over the river. Not seeing her hawk in the offing, she turns again to me.

  ‘I suppose there must be ice in the ice-lands?’

  ‘Yes. For six months of the year through the winter — and summers are short.’

  ‘Who would want go there?’ says Shaynat. ‘And the place overrun with Ostmen, eh?’

  ‘Look!’ I shout out. ‘There he is. Can you see the hawk, there, over the reeds? Coming this way!’

  ‘He has something in his talons — grey and small!’

  ‘Too big for coney or a pigeon.’

  ‘There he is,’ says Shaynat proudly, holding out her gloved left hand. ‘He has made up his mind. He’s coming.’

  The hawk descends to the gauntlet.

  ‘You were right! He has caught a young hare!’

  The tiercel dangles the quarry from his claws. The hare is alive, brown eyes staring, mouth gaping; ears stiff in terror. Shaynat grabs the leveret by ears and neck. The hawk releases his prey. A jerk, a twist in her hand and the hare’s neck is broken. The chieftain’s wife throws the little grey body lifeless at her feet. She draws a morsel of meat from her satchel and feeds the hawk from her hand.

  While Shaynat and I had our eyes skyward, watching for the hawk’s return, we hadn’t noticed that others had joined us. Clithna, now recovered from her colic, and one of Tioc’s daughters, Beyveen, have come to collect the horses for their ride on the heath. Both young women are dressed in riding-gea
r, wide-fitting smocks to go astride the horses.

  Beyveen ignores me and greets her mother. ‘A fine kill, Ma! One for the pot, and no blood spilled by the hawk! Taken alive, not a mark on the hare’s body.’

  ‘Aye, daughter,’ returns Shaynat. ‘He has a deft touch. Best young tiercel I have had, and no mistake! Just enough pressure from the talons. Enough to hold the prey, but not to pierce the skin.’

  ‘Amazing how gentle a hawk can be,’ says Clithna. ‘And yet he is so powerful. Those claws could have ripped the hare apart. One snap from his beak and he would have pierced the heart. But he did neither.’

  Shaynat smooths the hawk’s red tail-feathers. She looks up sharply. Her piercing glance rests on Lodin’s daughter. ‘In your condition, young woman, is it right that you should go riding?’

  ‘Does it show so much?’ Clithna replies. ‘I thought no one would notice with my wearing a riding-smock.’

  ‘It shows to me,’ returns Shaynat. ‘I’d say in your second month. Does your husband know?’

  ‘No,’ says Clithna. She steals a look at me in a guilty way. ‘I had to be sure of it before breaking the news to him.’

  Lodin’s daughter gives me a suspicious look.

  ‘Nothing to do with me,’ says I, having guessed Clithna’s thoughts. ‘I won’t say a word.’

  ‘Deasún should be told,’ says Shaynat. ‘It’s wrong for others to know and for him to be left in the dark.’

  ‘I will tell him immediately I return from the ride,’ says Clithna.

  ‘Your husband will not want you to be out riding,’ says Shaynat. ‘And he is right! You carry his child, and yet you take a horse over rugged ground up through heather dykes to Slieve Bhraan.’ Shaynat turns to her daughter. ‘And you are to blame for encouraging her!’