Crowbone

down the avenue of Bull stones, round to the curve of bay and bright red fire-flowers there.

‘One day,’ Murrough said, looking back at the bulk of the fort, ‘better men will make these strutters bow the knee.’

‘You are only annoyed because they say a man who fights with an axe is no man at all,’ Onund chided and Murrough chuckled in the dark.

‘Nor do they fight with the bow,’ he added and shook his head. ‘It is a wonder they have endured this long, what with all that and their silly little square shields and their tunics you could play ’tafl on.’

Crowbone was only happy to be leaving them entirely, though he notched the place in the tally stick of his head; one day, when Norway was his, this would be a good stepping stone for the rest of the north of Alba.

Back at the camp, music filtered, strange and fine in the night, as someone plucked strings in a delicate, leaping lilt. Men shuffled in a stamping jig, while others kept time beating hands on thighs and laughing; flames danced shadows and the smell of cooking was a comfort wafted on the cold wash of night air.

Crowbone came into the middle of them, grinning and getting chaffered about him deigning to join them from his richer revels; he acknowledged it with a good-natured wave and came up to the fire and the player. It was Bergliot, who smiled at him but did not stop her fast fingering of the instrument.

It was a gusli, which one of the Slavs from Kiev had brought with him, a five- stringed affair called krylovidnye which meant ‘shaped like a wing’. There was another type, bigger and shaped like a helmet and with more string, but this was a good travelling instrument and Bergliot played it well. When she finished, he graciously said so and she flashed flame-dyed teeth across the fire at him.

‘Shall I play you something?’ she demanded sweetly. ‘A wee cradlesong, perhaps, like your ma no doubt did for you to sugar your dreams.’

‘My ma never played such,’ he answered, harsh as a crow’s laugh. ‘Thralls were not allowed instruments and I was usually chained to the privy, so there was nothing much that could sweeten my dreams save revenge on those who did it to us.’

There was silence at that, both from those who knew the tale of Crowbone’s past and those finding out about it for the first time. Everyone now knew that the reason they had gone to Orkney was to visit that revenge on Gunnhild. Still, that and the pursuit of an axe now seemed better business with silver weighing the purses tucked under armpits or between their balls and, besides, this so-called prince of Norway had plucked most of them from ruin in Dyfflin.

Bergliot went still and quiet, her eyes bright in the firelight and so close to tears, it seemed to Crowbone, that he felt ashamed at having been so snarling.

‘She did tell me stories, though,’ he added lamely and the tension slid away from the fire. Bergliot wavered up a smile.

‘Long ago in Lord Novgorod the Great, lived a young musician,’ Crowbone said suddenly and there was a wind of sighing as those closest leaned in to hear better. ‘Every day, a rich merchant or noble would send a messenger to this man’s door, calling him to play at a feast. The musician would grab his twelve-string gusli and rush to the banquet hall and make them dance. The host would pass him a few small coins and let him eat his fill from the leftovers — on such as he was given did the musician live.’

‘My life entirely,’ said the owner of the gusli sadly, a man called Hrolfr, and those who knew him laughed.

‘Then you will know this man’s friends,’ Crowbone went on, ‘who would often ask how he could survive on so little. “It’s not so bad,” the man would reply. “I go to a different feast each day, play the music I love and watch it set a whole room dancing.”’

Crowbone paused. ‘Now that I think of it, I am sure — more than sure — that his name was Hrolfr.’

People laughed at that and clapped the man from Novgorod on the back, he beaming back at them. Crowbone saw Bergliot, her eyes round and bright as an owl.

‘Yet,’ Crowbone went on as more men filtered quietly in, attracted by the news that a story was being told, ‘sometimes Hrolfr was lonely. The maidens who danced gaily to his music at the feasts would often smile at him and more than one had set his heart on fire. But they were rich and he lived on thrown coins and leftovers and not one of them would think of being his.

‘One lonely evening, Hrolfr walked sadly beyond the city walls and down along the broad River Volkhov. He came to his favourite spot on the bank and set his gusli on his lap. “My lovely River Volkhov,” he said with a sigh. “If only you were a woman, I’d marry you and live with you here in the city I love.”’

‘It is true,’ Hrolfr burst out. ‘Is there another city such as Lord Novgorod the Great in all the world? Is there any better place to be?’

‘Silent is a better place to be,’ growled Stick-Starer from the shadows and Hrolfr, prepared to argue the point, was patted and soothed to be quiet.

‘Hrolfr played and the notes of his gusli floated over the Volkhov,’ Crowbone continued. ‘All at once a large shape rose from the water and Hrolfr yelled with fear. Before him stood a huge man, with a crown crusted with jewels like barnacles, with a great neck veil of pearls and, under it, a flowing mane of seaweed hair. “Musician,” said the man, “behold Aegir, King of the Waters. To this river I have come to visit one of my daughters, the Princess Volkhova. Your sweet music reached us on the river bottom, where it pleased us greatly.” It was all Hrolfr could do to stammer his thanks.

‘The King said that he would soon return to his own palace and that he wanted Hrolfr to play there at a feast. “Gladly,” said Hrolfr. “But where is it? And how do I get there?” The King laughed. “Why, under the sea, of course. You will find your way — but meanwhile, you need not wait for your reward.” The king dropped a large fish at Hrolfr’s feet. A fish with golden scales, which turned to solid gold as it stiffened and died.

‘Hrolfr was astounded, but the King waved a dismissive hand. “Say no more,” he said. “Music is worth far more than gold. If the world was fair, you would have your fill of riches and no rose would have thorns.” And with a splash, he sank in the river and was gone.’

‘Heya!’ bellowed a voice. ‘I am from Novgorod and all I ever got from the Volkhov was a chill.’

‘You cannot play as much as a bone flute, Wermund, so that is hardly a surprise,’ yelled a reply and people ordered them to whisht. Crowbone waited, then went on.

‘Hrolfr sold the golden fish to an astonished merchant, then left Novgorod that very day on a ship, down the Volkhov, across Lake Ladoga and into the Baltic Sea. As it sped above the deep water, he peered over the rail. “The sea is big enough to swallow whales,” he murmured. “How can I ever find the palace?” Just then, the ship shuddered to a halt. The wind filled the sails, yet the ship stood still, as if a giant hand had grasped it. The sailors grew afraid.’

‘I know these sailors,’ Adalbert interrupted. ‘Illi robur et aes triplex circa pectus erat, qui fragilem truci commisit pelago ratem primus.’

‘No, no,’ Crowbone shouted as Adalbert opened his mouth to translate. ‘Let me. As hard as — something — wood, I think — and three bronzes once is … the heart of him who … who … who …’

‘Is there an owl in this story?’ demanded Stick-Starer.

‘Or does it go on in the tongue of Christ priests?’ added Kaetilmund. ‘If so, I will need help with it.’

‘Not bad,’ Adalbert admitted, ignoring them all, ‘but it should be: As hard as oak and three times bronze was the heart of him who first committed a fragile vessel to the keeping of wild waves. Horatius.’

‘Was this Horatius on the ship then?’ bawled Hrolfr. ‘What happened to me?’

Crowbone held up his hands and smiled. Adalbert sat, stunned by the speed at which the youth was mastering the Latin that had taken the monk years to perfect.

‘The sailors prayed for their lives,’ Crowbone went on. ‘“Do not be troubled,” called Hrolfr. “I know the one he seeks.” And clutching his gusli, he climbed the railing and, before any could lay hold of him, jumped into the waves.’

‘Not likely,’ Stick-Starer declared, outraged and men laughed. Crowbone, ignoring them, continued.

‘Down sank Hrolfr, down all the way to the sea floor, where he saw, in the dim light, a white stone borg, big as the one to our left. He passed through a coral gate, only now beginning to marvel at how he was alive and breathing like a fish. As he reached the huge wall doors, they swung open to reveal a giant hall. The elegant room