Land of the Silver Dragon (16 page)

Freydis paused again, long enough for her entranced listeners to turn and glance at each other, their eyes wide in the firelight. But then she spoke again, and instantly her audience's attention was back with her.

‘The ship entered a busy, vibrant port where men of varied tongues bartered and traded,' she said. ‘The harbour was filled with crafts of all sizes, although none had come so far as Thorkel and his crew. Their appearance caused much interest, and both men and women approached, wanting to touch their pale skins and stroke their long, fair hair. Leaving instructions for his crew to trade their skins and their walrus ivory for fresh food and good water, Thorkel went ashore alone and he did not return until early the next morning. When his crew saw him, they blanched.'

Freydis stopped. She stood quite still, looking down at the ground, for several heartbeats. The tension mounted, and it seemed as if everyone in the hall, including me, held their breath.

Then into the silence came Freydis's cool, clear voice, and as I heard her words, I felt a deep chill run up my back. ‘For Thorkel Jorundsson,' she said, ‘was not the same man he had been when he went ashore.'

A
lways leave them wanting more
, my Granny Cordeilla used to say. I knew, even before Freydis turned away and melted into the shadows, that she would not complete her tale that night. Her audience did not appreciate that she had gone, however; several of them sat, bemused expressions on their faces, staring round as if she was suddenly going to reappear and tell them the conclusion.

I wondered, suddenly, if there would
be
a conclusion. As if some inner part of me knew better than my conscious mind, I was quite sure there wouldn't ...

But it was a fleeting thought, there and gone before it had time to lodge.

It seemed to take Freydis's audience some time to return from the imaginary world to which she'd transported them. I wasn't the only one to sit blinking stupidly as I came back to reality. Around me, people began to make desultory efforts at clearing up, and I went to help.

I wondered where I would be taken to sleep. I guessed it would be back to the second, smaller room, where I'd rested in the afternoon, since it seemed to be exclusively for women; presumably, the unmarried ones. I was right, and presently Thyra came to escort me back to the place where I'd slept earlier. Settling down in the warm, soft sheepskins, the light from the hearth gently illuminating the room, I was vaguely aware of other women and girls coming to bed. I was on the very edge of sleep when a sudden, frightening thought struck me.

These strangers might have been welcoming and hospitable to me. I might have just spent a most enjoyable evening with fine food and drink, entertained by an exceptional storyteller. Yet one of these people – apparently a high-ranking one – had come to my faraway home and committed very grave crimes, including two murders. If, as it appeared, Einar had gone on his mission with his father's full knowledge and approval, then surely it made them all guilty.

I realized, with a sick sense of fear, that I could not allow myself to relax my guard. With a great effort, I forced my anxious thoughts to grow still and finally fell asleep.

Sometime in the night I was thrown awake by a vivid and disturbing dream about a tall, light-haired, bearded man who went ashore as one person and came back as someone different. After that, sleep was a long time returning. When it did, the dreams were even worse.

Gurdyman had decided it would be best not to alarm Lassair's family by bursting in and announcing he was very worried about her because she appeared to be missing. Instead, he found a place beneath an ancient oak tree from which he could watch the village unobserved, and then sat down to wait for Hrype to appear.

He hoped fervently that his old friend was nearby. If not, he could be in for a very long wait.

As it transpired, however, he did not have to restrain his impatience for long. Quite soon, he saw Hrype emerge from behind a small, well-kept house on the edge of the settlement, whose garden was full of tidy herb beds: Lassair's aunt's house, he guessed. Standing up, he put his hands to his lips and blew a hooting whistle.

‘Not the most unobtrusive of calls to make in daylight hours,' Hrype observed, reaching the top of the incline and coming to join Gurdyman under the oak. ‘Had there been any of my fellow villagers within earshot, it might have penetrated even their dull and unobservant minds that it's rare to hear an owl in the daytime.'

Then, catching a good look at Gurdyman's face, he stopped. The levity, and the surprised pleasure at unexpectedly seeing his friend, drained away. ‘What's wrong?' he demanded urgently.

Gurdyman told him. ‘She's not here, then,' he added. There was no need to ask; Hrype's reaction told him that what he had so dreaded was true.

Hrype was standing a little apart from him, half turned away, looking down towards the village. ‘I might have known nothing that wasn't life-threatening would have prised you out of your house and brought you into the country,' he muttered. Then, spinning round, ‘Please, don't think I don't appreciate it.'

‘I don't,' Gurdyman said quietly.

There was silence. Gurdyman observed his friend, watching him go through the possibilities. Dismissing, probably, the easy answers. The ones that said,
there'll be an obvious explan-ation; she'll have run into that Norman of hers and gone off with him for a few days.
Or,
she'll have met some poor soul on the road in need of healing, and gone back with them to their home to take care of them.

For one thing, Lassair would not have done either of those things without getting word to her loved ones. For another, it wasn't
a few days
. It was more or less a fortnight.

Gurdyman sighed. He knew, even before Hrype spoke, that his friend would have reached the same conclusion that he had. Nevertheless, he waited for Hrype to admit it.

‘I believe,' Hrype said eventually, ‘that you and I might have prevented this.'

Gurdyman nodded. ‘I believe that, too.' He met Hrype's eyes. ‘It is not easy to live with.'

The silence resumed.

The next day, some of the young women whose accommodation I was sharing took it upon themselves to look after me. The morning was bright and sunny and, I guessed, as warm as it got up in those northern latitudes at that time of year. Which in fact wasn't really very warm at all, for the sun's strength was feeble up here. In the girls' cheerful, giggling company, I was led away into the low hills behind the farmstead, to where, to my amazed delight, a spring of natural hot water came bubbling up out of the black ground, forming a steaming, broiling lake. The girls shed their clothes and their inhibitions, plunging in mother-naked with squeals of mock-horror at the temperature of the water, urging me to join them. I didn't need much urging.

There must have been some code of conduct that reserved specific times for the two sexes, for no men or boys came to join us. After a while, however, I was feeling so relaxed, and enjoying the experience so much, that I wouldn't have minded if they had.

Back at the farmstead, one of the older women approached, bearing my own clothes, laundered and neatly folded. Taking them and thanking her, my first instinct was to go and change into them immediately. But, by the time I was back at my sleeping place, I was no longer so sure. Sensing someone watching me, I turned, to see Asa standing in the doorway.

Her cool, aloof expression was momentarily softened into a smile, and I saw how beautiful she was. ‘The gown which Thyra gave you becomes you,' she said. ‘It, and the other garments, is a gift, and yours to keep. We will understand, though, if you prefer to put on your own clothes once more.'

I looked down at myself. The cream and brown robe was lovely; probably the best-quality garment I'd ever worn. It, and the apron and under linen, felt right, somehow. I felt very comfortable in them, and, in a strange way, it was as if I was used to wearing them. It occurred to me suddenly that it wasn't only the clothes that felt familiar; or, possibly, they were a symptom of something larger. The fact was, I felt at home here in the farmstead. I got on with these people; I seemed to understand them, although I had no idea why. In some unfathomable way, they were familiar.

I had already resolved the question of how it was that, with Olaf's help, I had managed so quickly to pick up a working knowledge of their speech. From all that I had observed, it was clear that these people regularly visited my own country. Einar and his crew, for example, obviously knew the waters around the fens, and Thorfinn appeared to have heard of Cambridge. These facts did not surprise me, for the Norsemen had long traded with my own countrymen, and it seemed quite possible that I had been absorbing speech and accents similar to those of my hosts since I'd first been able to hear and understand.

I still had no idea why I was there or what they wanted from me. Yet, some time during the day and the night since my arrival, and despite my constant efforts to remind myself what Einar had done, it occurred to me that I'd stopped being afraid. I felt almost that I was one of them. Under the circumstances, it seemed right to go on wearing my new finery. Then, I would
look
like one of them, too.

Still, the fact remained that I had been brought here against my will and without my agreement.

As all this flashed swiftly through my mind, I realized I hadn't answered Asa. I returned her smile, and said, ‘I am most grateful for the gift. I will pack my own garments away, and continue to dress as my hosts do.'

She gave a quick nod of acknowledgement (of approval?) then turned and slipped away.

Later in the day, Thorfinn sent for me. He greeted me courteously, and I had the sense that his swift glance took in quite a lot. He proposed a ride; two tough-looking, shaggy ponies stood ready outside the homestead.

We crossed the valley, surmounted the gentle slope at its lip and then rode off along the coastal plain. Reaching a place where a small river flowed out from the hills to meet the sea, we turned inland. As we jogged along, Thorfinn spoke of many things: the landscape, the climate, the problems of growing enough food during the short season to feed the people in the long winter months. I guessed he hadn't brought me out there to discuss the weather and food production, and, sure enough, presently he drew rein at the top of a low rise, turned to me and said, ‘Did you enjoy Freydis's story?'

‘Yes, very much,' I replied. ‘Although I confess it gave me bad dreams.'

‘
Bad
dreams?' he shot back.

It was as if he knew. ‘Well, powerful dreams,' I amended. That was putting it mildly; in my sleeping self, I had experienced a voyage such as Thorkel's, and in nightmare visions I had travelled inside my soul and been forced face to face with aspects of myself and my past that were neither nice nor welcome.

‘Powerful dreams,' Thorfinn repeated thoughtfully. He was staring at me, right inside me. I had the sense that he was seeing me very clearly.

It was not a comfortable feeling. ‘What happened to Thorkel?' I asked, more to stop his probing than because I thought he'd tell me. ‘Did he manage to get his ship and his crew safely home?'

‘He did,' Thorfinn said. I sensed a heaviness in his tone, as if some ancient memory disturbed him. ‘In time, he married, and his wife bore him a son.' He shot me a quick glance, his light eyes holding mine for only an instant. ‘His son, too, was a mariner, and that son's daughter in her turn bore a son who followed his forefathers to sea.'

I worked it out. ‘So that man was Thorkel's great-grandson.'

‘He was,' Thorfinn agreed. Again, he looked quickly at me. It was as if he was constantly gauging my reaction. ‘He was called the Silver Dragon,' he murmured, ‘and this was his land.'

He must have been a mighty figure, I reflected, for his people still called their land by the same name.

‘What was he like?' I asked.

Thorfinn looked up into the sky. ‘It is warm today,' he observed. Only relatively so, I could have added. I wrapped my borrowed sheepskin jerkin more closely around me. ‘We shall dismount,' he went on, ‘and sit here on the headland, looking out over the sea.'

I settled beside him. The ponies wandered away, and I heard the sound of their strong teeth tearing at the short, tough grass. I'd imagined we would sit there a while, and he would tell me some more about life up there in that inhospitable land. But I was wrong. When, at last, he began to speak, it was to tell me a story that precisely answered my question: the story of the Silver Dragon.

‘You asked what he was like,' he began. ‘He was, like most of us, a mixture of good and bad. He was a big man; tall, broad-shouldered, heavily bearded, with a head of thick, fair hair streaked white by the sun, the wind and the salt sea spray. That was why they gave him the nickname: they said he looked like a dragon wreathed in its own silvery-white smoke.' He smiled, as if reflecting on some fond memory.

‘To begin with, he was fearless and intrepid, leading his loyal crew into many adventures as they followed the routes discovered by the forefathers and, extending them, always pushing on, on, discovered new lands. The Dragon had faith in his own abilities: was he not the descendant of great men, mariners who feared nothing and risked every peril in order to push out the boundaries of their world? Besides, the Dragon believed that he carried his own luck with him.' A shadow crossed the lined old face. In a softer tone, he murmured, ‘It is ever so, that the gods observe those who are brash and overconfident, and, in time, remind them forcefully and painfully that they are but human.'

I nodded. Gurdyman had told me legends from out of the unimaginably distant lands in the hot south, beside the Middle Sea. In the tales, men who began to believe they were gods always suffered. I pictured Gurdyman's face, trying to recall the word:
hubris
.