To Lie with Lions - Dorothy Dunnett [187]
His eyes on the eagle, Nicholas made no response. Into his mind had come something grave, to do with his child. Part of his consciousness told him that, whatever it was, it was not fatal. Part of his mind attempted to turn his thoughts back to the present: to the beauty and silence through which he was riding. He wished he could soar alone, like the eagle. Or that one person was with him, to whom he could say: Match this beauty, this white and gold beauty, with yours.
It would soon be time to camp. As the sun declined, so, like dancers unveiled, the far-off slopes and ridges and gulleys revealed themselves to the altering light. Curves and lines in the snow gleamed like script; harness dazzled, and where the horses had stepped, a crusted sparkle of gold rimmed the prints.
By the sixth hour all had dimmed, and their tents were put up by the seventh near a farm, at the onset of darkness. His pavilion, for himself and Benecke, had come from the ship and was ungainly and tall. The Icelanders made a home from three poles, two of them upright, with a cross-pole of eight feet between them. The cover was wadmol, its white folds pegged and weighted with baggage. For mattresses, they employed slabs of turf from under the hook-saddles, and the farmer gave them some dung for their fire, and a wooden pail of warm milk, and some curds. There were no girls in the house, it would seem.
Viewed from the blue dusk of their shelter, the distant tableland glared like their fire, and was quenched. They talked as they ate. After a while, when all the news had been exchanged, and the pointed – the surprisingly pointed – cross-questions had ceased, Nicholas contrived to lead Glímu-Sveinn to speak of his island as once it had been.
The first to come had been the Culdees: Irish monks, Robin had told him, who worshipped Christ on St Serf’s island in Fife as well as here, on the islets of Iceland, and who knew the pink-footed geese in both lands.
Then had come the Norwegian settlers, worshipping Odin and Thor, whose hammer-symbols and giants and trolls still haunted the fiery hills and the caves and the fissures, even though Christ had ousted Odin, and there were devils with new names in Hell. Glímu-Sveinn was familiar with all the stories because, since his ancestors came, they had been related over and over through the dark nights, and written down, and made into poetry, and sung. Everyone in Iceland knew who his ancestors were. Every farm, every hill, every rock had its name and its story. The plague had come twice this last century. The Black Death had killed half the populace. But still the vellum rolls were kept in their coffers, and for those who could not read, the farmer would tell over the tales in the evenings, or give room to the travelling bard, who paid his way with his stories. ‘Who were your ancestors,’ asked Glímu-Sveinn, ‘ten generations ago?’
And Nicholas laughed a little and said, ‘I do not even know who my father might be.’ It sounded friendly. It didn’t need to be true.
By then Benecke had fallen asleep on his bed, and soon Nicholas joined him. After that, he wakened and slept, and occasionally attended to the health of the fire. Once he saw Glímu-Svein silently rise and move out, a lighted spar in one hand and his knife in the other. The dog had been uneasy and jumped up and went out with his master. Then they both returned and the Icelander went back to his tent, saying nothing.
Nicholas lay and considered. He had put aside the matter of Kathi. She and her brother had passed; the farmer confirmed it. They would have reached Skálholt this morning, and might already be embarked on the last of their journey. He would catch up with them. He would reach Skálholt tomorrow. What happened then might be amusing.
Now he should sleep, but could not. He wondered if Glímu-Sveinn had daughters. He wondered how Sersanders had fared, and was faring, and if his sister had learned of the hospitable