Lord of Raven's Peak - Catherine Coulter [26]
There was no talk from the men, just the sounds of chewing and swallowing, and the sighs of satisfaction.
She looked at them and smiled. She filled her belly quickly, too quickly, and she looked sadly at the rest of the stew in her wooden bowl. She had made more stew than ever before and yet it was eaten, all of it, not a bit left. Old Firren looked at her and grinned, showing a wide space between his teeth.
“I hate the taste of my cooking,” he said. He heard laughter and agreement from the men. “My belly is singing.”
“Your belly sings a simple tune,” Oleg shouted. “My belly believes it’s gained Valhalla and is being caressed by the Valkyrie.”
The men laughed, and each one of them thanked her. When Merrik told her it was the best meal any of them had eaten since leaving Norway, Taby said, “Before she didn’t know anything. All the servants did that, but then when we were—”
She clamped her hand over his mouth, hissing, “ Merrik isn’t interested in that, Taby. Say nothing more.”
The child looked at her, frowning, but he slowly nodded.
Merrik merely smiled. He held out his hand to Taby. The child looked at his hand, then very slowly, tentatively, he placed his own small one in Merrik’s. Merrik said easily, “My mother cooks well. Travelers and kin hate to leave just because of her cooking. Now there is pain in her fingers and it is a chore for her, but Sarla, my brother’s wife, is learning.” He paused a moment, then added with a slight frown, “You cook as well as my mother.” He said nothing more, just lifted Taby into his arms and carried him to the campfire. The men were talking low, sporadically, for the most part just content to sit there before the fire, their bellies satisfied.
“I would hear a story,” Merrik said. “Deglin, have you a new one to tell us?”
Deglin smiled up at Merrik, a sly smile that made his cat’s chin even more pointed. He looked at Taby and said, “Have you heard tell of the great warrior Grunlige the Dane? No? Then sit with Merrik and I will tell you of him before you sleep.”
All the men settled back, for all loved the tales they’d heard since their own childhood.
Deglin had been the Haraldsson skald for nearly four years. He knew well his audience. He spoke slowly, emphasis on the words he deemed most important, his eyes on the men to see their reaction. His voice was deep and low as he said, “Ah, listen all of you to this tale. It is of Grunlige the Dane, a man who could break the neck of a cow with one hand. He was so strong that he wrestled with four bulls and then slaughtered them all for the winter solstice feast. Even with his mighty strength, he knew honor and never did he hurt those who did not deserve it. When he and his men were voyaging back to Denmark, they were caught in huge ice floes that threatened to crush their vessels to sticks of wood. Grunlige leapt upon the first ice floe and began to tear it to little pieces with his bare hands. His men pleaded with him to wrap his hands in skins and furs, but he didn’t heed them. He broke up the ice floe, then leapt to the second and then to the third. When all the ice floes were but shards of ice in the sea, as harmless as grits of sand on a shore, he swam back to his longboat. He looked at his hands, those hands that had strangled a ferocious bear in Iceland, and saw that they were blue as the frigid water from the cold. And he said to his men, ‘I cannot feel my hands.’
“And his men wrapped his hands in furs and skins, but it was too late. His hands were frozen. When they thawed with the coming of spring, they were withered and looked like small animal claws, the fingernails still the blue of the sea, and there was no more strength in them. All grieved for Grunlige’s plight, save his enemies who rejoiced in secret and feasted and plotted against him.” Deglin paused, then smiled toward Taby. “And that is all I will tell you tonight.”
Taby, as well as all the men, were sitting still as stones, bent forward, toward Deglin. There was a collective sigh