The White Raven

What had changed, of course, was that Dobrynya — and so also Vladimir — could not be sure their druzhina was strong enough to handle the Oathsworn. So the little prince, as advised by Uncle Dobrynya, smiled and acknowledged how marvellous we were at taking fortified places and lavished silver he did not yet have on all our heads.

We sat round leather cups of good ale, speculating on what had happened to Morut the tracker, as if we were really friends, while I felt the sick dull ache of knowing that Cod-Biter fought for his life nearby and that Short Eldgrim might already be dead.

Then, of course, Olaf put us all right on the matter of princes and friendships.

'There was once a prince,' he said into the awkward silence. 'Let us not call him Vladimir,' interrupted Dobrynya smoothly, 'unless he is a good prince.'

Olaf looked levelly back at the Dobrynya, then to where his silver-nosed uncle stood in the darkness, as pointed a gesture as to make Dobrynya stiffen. I doubted if Sigurd was as solid a protection as Olaf believed; if he lived to be older he would find that blood-ties are not enough to be relied on. Only hard god-oaths are to be trusted.

'There was once a prince,' Olaf repeated, 'whose name does not matter, in a land, do not ask me where.

'There was a girl who was so splendid everyone called her Silver Bell. Her eyes were like wild black cherries, her brows curved like Bifrost. Into her braids she plaited coloured glass beads from distant lands and on her hat there was a silver bell, bright as moonlight, which gave her her name.

'One day the father of Silver Bell fell ill and her mother said to her: 'Get up on the bay horse and hurry to the detinets of the prince. Ask him to come here and to cure your father, for it is well known that true princes can heal the sick with a touch.''

'Well that is right enough,' beamed Sigurd, trying to show the tale was headed in the proper direction. Olaf smiled, sharp as a weasel on mouse-scent.

'The girl leaped up on the bay horse with the white star on his forehead,' he went on. 'She took in her right hand the leather reins with silver rings and in her left the lash with a finely carved bone handle. The bay horse galloped fast, the reins shook up and down, the harness tinkled merrily.

'The prince was in the courtyard of his fortress, playing with his hawks. He heard the clattering of hooves and saw the girl on the bay horse. She sat proudly in the high saddle; the bell fluttered in the wind, the silver in it ringing where it struck the gems sewn in her hat. The beads sang in her thick braids and the hawk flew, forgotten, from the prince's hand. 'Great prince,' said the girl. 'My father is sick, come help us.'

'The prince looked back at her and said: 'I will cure your father if you will marry me.' Silver Bell loved another, a fine, strong hunter of wolves — frightened, she pulled the reins and galloped off. 'At dawn tomorrow I will come to you,' the prince called after her.'

'This does not sound like any prince I know,' growled Dobrynya meaningfully.

'Really, uncle?' said Vladimir with a delighted chuckle. 'I know two brothers just like this.'

Olaf smiled quietly and went on, soft and level and compelling. 'The stars had barely melted in the sky, the meat in the kettles had not yet been cooked, the fine white rugs were not yet spread, bread had not yet been made, when there was a loud clattering of hooves at Silver Bell's home. The prince had arrived.

'Silently, looking at no-one, he dismounted and, greeting no-one, he went into where the sick man lay. The prince wore magnificent clothes, dripping with silver weighing eighty pounds if it weighed an ounce. All day, from dawn to sunset, the prince sat beside the sick man without lifting his eyelids, without moving, without uttering a word — but it was clear that Silver Bell was not going to come to him and he grew angrier and angrier at her presumption.

'Late at night, the prince stood up and pulled his fine sable hat down to his scowl. Then he said: 'Drive out Silver Bell. An evil spirit resides in her. While she is in the house, her father will not get up from his illness. Misfortune will not leave this valley. Little children will fall asleep forever; their fathers and grandfathers will die in torment.''

Dobrynya made a warning growl; even Sigurd shifted uneasily. Vladimir said nothing at all and Olaf did not even appear to notice any of this. Sweat trickled down my back and I felt it freeze there. He would get us all back in the queue for a stake. .

'The women of the camp fell down upon the ground in fear,' Olaf said. 'The old men pressed their hands over their eyes with grief. The young men looked at Silver Bell; twice they turned red and twice they turned pale.

'The prince smiled to himself. 'Put Silver Bell into a wooden barrel,' he declared. 'Bind the barrel with nine iron hoops. Nail down the bottom with copper nails and throw the barrel into the rushing river.'

'This said, he rode off to his hall in the fine, large borg and called his thralls round him. 'Go to the river,' he told them. 'The water will bring down a large barrel. Catch it and bring it here, then run into the woods. If you hear weeping, do not turn back. If cries and moans spread through the woods, do not look back. Do not return to my hall in less than three days.'

'For nine days and nine nights the people of the encampment could not bring themselves to carry out the prince's orders. For nine days and nine nights they bid the girl farewell. On the tenth day they put Silver Bell into a wooden barrel, bound it with nine iron hoops, nailed down the bottom with copper nails and threw the barrel into the rushing river.'

'This sounds a suitable punishment for one who insults a prince,' noted Dobrynya. Vladimir frowned uneasily and I swallowed the thickness in my mouth.

'It is a tale about Odin,' I declared and saw Sigurd's head come up at this manifest lie.

'Is it?' asked Vladmir, his frown deepening. 'He does not sound godlike to me.'

'A master of deceit,' I acknowledged. 'Always his gifts are suspect. Recall the tale of the nine thralls and the whetstone. .'

I was babbling and heard myself, so I stopped. Olaf, blank as a cliff, gave me his two-coloured stare and cleared his throat, a high little sound.

'On that day,' he began, 'the day the barrel went in the river, the hunter who loved Silver Bell was examining his traps, saw the barrel, caught it, brought it out of the river, picked up an axe and knocked out the bottom. When he saw Silver Bell, the hand that held the axe dropped and his heart leaped like a grasshopper. At last he asked: 'Who put you into the barrel?' She told him.

'The hunter thought for a minute, then went to his traps, where a huge wolf, white as silver glared at him and then got back to gnawing through its own paw. At this point, the hunter would have knocked it on the head; instead, he caught it by the ruff and dropped it in the barrel, nailed down the bottom with copper nails and let the barrel float downstream.

'The prince's thralls pulled out the barrel, brought it to the great hall and put it before the prince, then left as he had ordered. Even before they had closed the door, they heard him knock out the bottom of the barrel and call for help. Faithfully, they did as they had been bidden. They heard shouts, but did not turn back. They heard moaning and cries, but did not look back. For such were their lord's orders.

'Three days later they returned and opened the door. A great, silver-ruffed, three-legged wolf, dead of exhaustion and blood-loss, lay on the floor. Nearby was the prince, more dead than alive — his flesh was torn to shreds, his fine clothes were tattered and torn and, when the thralls crowded round to find out what had happened, all that he could say that made sense was. . 'silver' and 'curse'. He never spoke sense ever again.'

Into the silence that followed, Sigurd cleared his throat. Olaf, unsmiling and cool as a river stone, hopped down from his bench and silently placed a hand on Vladimir's shoulder. I waited, dry-mouthed, for the flaring of princely rage that would follow.

Instead, Vladimir blinked once or twice, then nodded, as if Olaf had whispered to him.

'When this business is finished,' he said, 'you must stay with me in Lord Novgorod the Great.'

'Of course,' said Olaf with a smile. 'And you will give me ships and men and I will fight on your behalf. Jon Asanes must also come, for he is a clever man. Together we will make your name greater than that of your father.'

The clarity of it shocked me, like the stun of a blow taken on your forearm. Of course — little Vladimir, hag- ridden by his father's memory, wanted only that; to be greater. That was what drove him after Atil's hoard.

I stood up and took my leave while I was in the eye of this storm and — not that I was surprised — little Crowbone caught up with me not long afterwards. Outside, in the dark of the dead day, he trotted at my heels,