Sigrid remained, a little smile across her lips. Sharp she had been before, bearing a studied indifference as carefully as a swordsman holds his guard. Yet now, for a time at least, that coldness had gone from her.
I saw the way that her eyes danced over the crowd, how she half-started at the shouts and the cries like a wild horse before the breaking.
‘You have never been to an Althing before, have you?’
She shook her head. ‘My father would not let me.’
‘And he permits you now?’
‘He is dead. He…’ She fell to silence and I took her hand.
‘Come. Let me show you.’
On that first day, the new world was still being built. We walked past those chieftains and merchants and priests who always came to Althing, hard at work on the booths they occupied every year, re-erecting roofs that had been taken by storm, shoring up walls pierced by vagrants or outlaws. They were like men rebuilding a lost city from its ruins, a memory. Elsewhere, those too poor for a regular place were arguing amongst one another, vying for the best spot from whatever space was left. The crafty traders waited for an argument to begin, and snuck quietly into a place that was disputed. If you have ever watched seals on the islands dividing up the breeding grounds in a brawling, shrieking, sneaking battle of voice and flesh, you will know this sight, or close enough.
There are great happenings to witness at the Althing, places where our little world is being reshaped by the speeches of great men, their words falling upon the rest of us like a hammer upon hot iron. I could have taken her to see where the priests would be arguing about the coming of the new religion that some Icelanders were practising in secret, spread by the followers of the White Christ. Or where great chieftains would be speaking to their followers, or where travellers from distant lands would be sharing stories of the raids they had fought in, speaking to an audience of wistful, shipless Vikings. Perhaps that is where Gunnar would be now, lost in memories of the man he once was, nurturing an impossible dream of pulling the bones of his ship from his home and setting sail once more.
But I did not take her to these places.
Instead I took her to where Thord the Sly was selling his axes to men who did not know him, and told her how one could tell from the flecks on the blade that he had scrimped on his iron. They were brittle axe heads that would shatter on shield and skull and chopping block alike. I told her how, young and foolish, I had bought one of his axes as a youth and won back my silver in a challenge.
‘I stood there with a shield in my hand,’ I said, ‘and told him that he could swing at me as much as he liked with one of his axes. If it broke before my shield did, he would pay me double its worth. If the shield broke first, I would pay him twice the price. And he did not swing once. Just smiled for the crowd, called me a fool who did not know good quality when I saw it, and gave me back my silver.’
‘Why do any still buy from him, then?’
‘He talks well. Men want to believe him.’
We went to a horse fight run by Old One Eye, and I told her how to pick out the winner, how more often than not it was the horse that looked a coward, that rolled its eyes and danced away from its owner, that would fight hardest when forced to it. Cowards fear death more than the brave, and it is cowards who are the most dangerous when trapped. I showed her the mares that were tied behind each stallion, there to make them fight harder.
‘Oh,’ she said. ‘They kill for love, then?’
‘Yes.’
‘Do men ever kill for love?’
‘Not often. Most men kill for honour, or in anger.’
‘So only horses kill for love.’
‘Only horses. And poets, sometimes.’
She laughed at me then. ‘Come. Show me something else.’
I did not take her back to the poet’s quarter, where greater skalds than I would be singing their most famous songs, trying to fix themselves in the fickle minds of those who stopped to listen. Instead, I took her to that little hollow by the lake where, every year, the same old man told the same sad story. He had been there at every Althing I visited. His story was not that of a great life spent raiding or feuding, but a long, quiet tale of loss and ill fortune. A wife who divorced him when his fortune turned, children lost to sickness and shipwreck, a farm run down to ruin. He paid no mind to whether any came to listen, which was rare enough. He was blind and expected nothing from his audience. The telling of the tale, it seemed, was enough for him.
I showed her only these parts of the gathering, the Althing I knew, and hoped that she might know me from it. A crooked seller of axes, a duel of horses, a man telling stories to the air. A passing world. It was as close a thing to a city as either of us would see in our lives.
At last, we came to the heart of the Althing. A simple field by the sheer rocks, where we do not come to listen to the words of gods or heroes, chieftains or singers. It is where we come to listen to the law.
We were early and there were not many others there. Only a scattering of men, all wandering restlessly. Each of them had grievances to put before the court, walking in circles and muttering to themselves, repeating the particulars of their suit over and over again. We were the only ones, it seemed, who came without a case to prepare. We sat upon the warm grass and waited.
‘So,’ I said, ‘you have seen the Althing. I would know what you think of it.’
‘It is wonderful. As wonderful as I hoped it would be.’ She looked at me, as if seeing me again for the first time. ‘But I think you are not so pleased by it.’
‘I like it well enough. I like the silence better.’
‘A poet of silence. You make many difficulties for yourself, I think.’
‘Truer than you know,’ I said, and I held her gaze until she looked away.
‘Why did you come here, then?’ she asked.
‘To pay my duty to a friend.’
‘And did you?’
‘I did.’ But I said no more than that.
I watched her for a time – her rough hands, a servant’s hands, clasped together in her lap. The dance of blood beneath the skin of her neck, quickening and slowing at the rise and fall of her breath. Her lips, thin and always slightly parted, always ready with a quick word, it seemed. I wondered what it would be like to kiss those lips.
Perhaps she saw those thoughts marked upon my face. ‘Olaf’s tolerance goes only so far,’ she said. ‘I must go. But come and find me again. We should speak more.’
I could not help but laugh. ‘Where does that boldness of yours come from, I wonder? Some famous ancestor?’
‘No. Perhaps my courage is the same as yours.’
‘You think I have courage?’
‘I do.’
‘And where does it come from?’
‘From one who has little to lose.’ She stood, and as if by accident, let the edge of her hand brush past my face. Cool skin, the edge of a nail biting for a moment against my cheek. Then she was away, disappearing into the crowd.
I called one last question after her. ‘Can you sing, Sigrid?’
‘Better than you.’ And she was gone.
I lay back on the grass and watched the clouds dance across the sky, and gave myself to thoughts of the future. I thought of the feel of her skin against mine, what it would be like to share warmth in the darkness. The way, at night, that a woman’s eyes shine like silver under candlelight. Then I thought of nothing at all.
Before long, I heard footsteps, soft through the grass. A shadow across the sun, and then a presence on the ground beside me. I knew who it was before I sat up, and we shared the silence together for a time.