“So you do dislike him.” Jessa put her boots up on the rock in front of her. “I knew.”
“You would.” He leaned back against the mossy boulders and frowned down at the Jarlshold, the huddle of roofs and ships, the dragon heads of the hall. “It’s just that he wasn’t here, you see.”
“When Gudrun ruled?”
Skapti nodded, rubbing the side of his nose and the edge of his long hand. “In all the troubles, when Wulfgar and I were outlaws, when we were running from Gudrun’s men like kicked dogs, when we were scavenging on snow and fish bones, where was Vidar then?”
“Out of it?”
“Well out. And safe. Living in Stavangerfjord with his wife’s family. Keeping his head down. Obeying. He didn’t lose any land. None of his family disappeared, or ended on her soldiers’ swordpoints.”
Jessa looked at him. “And he came back when Wulfgar was made the Jarl.”
“Oh yes. When it was safe, when all the danger was over.” He glanced at her and laughed sourly. “Oh no, Jessa, I don’t like the man, Freyrspriest or not. But there’s no doubt his counsel is good. And Wulfgar trusts him. But theft! Unlikely.”
“Well,” she said slowly, “I don’t know about that. But I saw that rat’s face, Skapti, and it was the same man. Vidar can’t know he’s a thief. In any case, I think we should tell Wulfgar.”
The skald nodded, his lank hair ruffled in the spring breeze. He stood up and hauled her after him. “Come on, then. Let’s find our friend with the knife.”
As they walked back down the rock-strewn pasture, goats scattered before them, bleating. Voices rose from the fishing fleet drifting into shore; the foremost ship ground its keel into the shingle with a hoarse scrape.
Coming into the hold, they saw that preparations had begun for the Freyrscoming. Kindling was being unloaded from two wagons at the back of the hall; great logs, freshly cut, oozing with sap and the rich smell of forest damp. House thralls were carrying them in and stacking them in crisscrossed heaps, their shaven circles of timber ridged with age rings. Sawdust and splintered wood were trampled into the mud.
The hall was empty, its shutters thrown wide and the great roof tree standing stark in the dimness. They ran upstairs. Skapti thumped on the door of Wulfgar’s chamber and they went in.
The Jarl was sitting in a chair with a selection of swords spread over his knees and at his feet. A plump, sleek merchant with black, oily hair perched nervously on the bench.
“Skapti!” Wulfgar sprang up, sending weapons everywhere. “Now which of these do you think is the best?”
He gathered up a long heavy blade with a leather-bound grip and held it against another, shorter weapon with fine engraving along the blade. Jessa wandered to the fire.
“This one handles better, but the other is more…”
“Showy,” Jessa put in.
He tugged her hair gently. “That’s the word.”
Skapti took the swords and swung them one by one. “The plain one has better balance.”
“Ah, but the other,” the merchant said quickly, “is more fit for the Jarl. A fine sword, crafted in the south, beyond the Cold Sea. Hammered from finest twisted steel.”
“And a higher price.” Skapti grinned at Jessa.
“A little…”
“A lot, I’d say.”
The merchant frowned. “But the runes on the blade have the properties of protection. No enemy could touch the Jarl.”
Skapti tossed the swords onto the bed. “Well, buy that one then, Wulfgar. With your skill you might need it.”
Wulfgar glared at him. “Sometimes I think you forget who I am.”
“Not me,” the skald snapped. “I’ve watched your back in too many battles.”
For a long, amused moment Wulfgar gazed at him. Then he gave his lazy smile and leaned back in his chair, turning graciously to the merchant. “As my friend points out in his poetic way, a Jarl should be dependent on his war band, not on sorcery. I will buy the plainer sword, at the price you mentioned. Now if you go down to the hall, Guthlac will give you something to eat.”
Recognizing his dismissal, the merchant gathered up his swords, wrapping each in fine oiled cloth. Skapti opened the door and watched him stagger carefully down the steps.
“Smooth as his blades,” he muttered.
Wulfgar laughed and poured out a cup of wine.
Jessa sat opposite him. “Wulfgar, I want to tell you something. That thief who stole the silver. I’ve seen him. He’s here at the hold.”
He stared at her in surprise, eyes dark. “Here? Jessa, you should have said.”
“I only found out last night.” She flicked a look at Skapti, who shrugged. “I saw Vidar go into one of the houses here. The thief opened the door to him.”
“Vidar!”
“I’m sure it was the same man.”
He gazed at her thoughtfully, fingering the fine gold neck ring at his throat. “There must be some mistake. Vidar can’t know this.”
“Probably not. But we should ask him.”
Wulfgar turned to the window, then leaned out, his hands on the sill. He called below for someone to send Vidar Freyrspriest up and then wandered back to the fire.
“Well, if your thief is here we’ll get our silver back at least.” He smiled at her. But she knew he was puzzled.
After a few moments there was a tap on the door and Vidar came in, frost melting on his coat. In daylight the scar on his face was grayer, drawn tight. “You wanted me?”
“Sit down,” Wulfgar said.
He sat, glancing quickly at their faces. “What is it? Is something wrong?”
Wulfgar put one foot on the bench and leaned over him. For a moment Jessa sensed his authority, hidden behind that easy, lazy manner. Vidar looked tense, as if he felt it too. But Wulfgar spoke quietly.
“You went to a house last night.”
“A house?”
“Here in the hold.”
“I watched you,” Jessa put in. Impatiently she stood up. “Look, the man who opened the door to you was the one who stole money from me in Hollfara two days ago.”
Vidar stared at her. “Snorri? Impossible!”
Furious, she glared back. “I know what I saw!”
Vidar stroked his narrow gray beard. “I’m sure you think so, Jessa, but I can’t believe this. Snorri used to be a bondsman of mine. He bought his freedom years ago. He lives here now, and part owns one of the fishing boats. He’d never thieve. For one thing, he hasn’t the wits.”
“The only way to settle it,” Skapti remarked, “is to send for him.”
“Of course.” Vidar nodded and went to stand, but Wulfgar pushed him back and stalked to the door. They heard him shouting orders down the stairs.
“If this is true,” the priest murmured to Jessa, “I will personally see to it that every coin is paid back.”
She nodded, gave him a tight smile, but she knew quite well he thought she was mistaken. She glanced at Skapti but he seemed lost in his own thoughts, so she turned to the fire and watched Vidar from the corner of her eye. What if he did know? What if he and the thief were accomplices? She had to admit, it seemed unlikely. And yet she remembered the way he had crept between the houses, stepping back into shadow when that woman passed.
Wulfgar came back. “I’ve sent for him. Take some wine, Vidar. Is everything ready for tomorrow night?”
Vidar nodded. “The kindling is here, for the fires. The ritual meats for the feast are ready; a boar is being slaughtered tomorrow. The image of the god has reached the village of Krasc, just over the hill. He’ll be brought here by boat. Everything for the ceremony is ready.” As he spoke he poured wine carefully into a cup. One red drop fell on his fingers and he sucked it away. “I intend to spend this afternoon alone in the hills, preparing myself, speaking to Freyr in my heart. The omens are good. He’ll bring us a good crop and a good harvest this year.”
Wulfgar nodded, then turned as his steward, Guthlac, came in.
“The man Snorri is in the hall. He was found on the wharves.”