or mattocks. A man with a plaited beard and rings in his ears directed
‘You do the talking,’ Vallon told Wayland.
The harbourmaster waved a staff to hold back the crowd. ‘Where are you from?’ he shouted.
‘England.’
‘What are you carrying?’
‘Mixed goods.’
The harbourmaster sprang on board and looked the company over. ‘Are you the master?’ he asked Vallon.
‘He doesn’t speak your language well,’ said Wayland. ‘He’s a Frank.’
The harbourmaster was delighted. ‘I’ve never seen a Frenchman before. I thought they were smaller than that.’
‘We’ve got a German and a Sicilian, too.’
‘What’s a Sicilian?’
Wayland presented Hero. The harbourmaster studied him with blatant curiosity. ‘He’s not a monk, is he?’
‘No. A student of medicine.’
‘Good. We’ve got enough foreign monks on Iceland. A pair arrived from Norway a week ago. Germans sent by the mother church to save our souls from perdition.’
Raul spat. ‘Damn. Beaten by a pair of crows.’
Several Icelanders had sneaked on to the ship to examine the cargo. The harbourmaster chased them off and looked into the hold. ‘You won’t have any trouble shifting that timber. What are you after in exchange?’
‘We’ll decide when we’ve seen what’s on offer. First we need to find lodgings.’
The harbourmaster pointed out a pair of bothies set back from the harbour. ‘That’s all we’ve got for outlanders. Most foreign traders stay with kin or business partners.’
‘They’re no good,’ said Wayland. ‘We’ll be here all summer. We need somewhere large enough to house us in comfort and store our goods.’
The harbourmaster faced Vallon with an air of mild expectation. It became apparent that an inducement was required. Richard slipped the man a couple of coins.
‘I’ll see what I can do.’
‘Where are those ships from?’ Wayland asked, pointing at the pair down the jetty.
‘I’d say they’re from betwixt and between. They’re Norway ships that should have gone home last autumn, but they sailed too late and were taken aback by westerlies. Couldn’t get round the Reykjanes peninsula. Been here all winter. Be careful how you talk to the crews. They’re on short tethers.’
The harbourmaster left the ship and talked to a youth on horseback. The youth rode away. The crowd had begun to disperse. The company put the ship in order before eating. Afterwards, Wayland went ashore, but there was little to see and he soon returned to the ship and settled down to sleep.
It was still luminous night when the dog nuzzled him awake. Three men leading two spare mounts came riding along the jetty, their sturdy little horses stepping out at a curious running walk. The harbourmaster trotted alongside the leading rider, holding on to his stirrup.
‘Wake up,’ Wayland called. ‘We’ve got company.’
The delegation reined in beside
Wayland glanced at Vallon. ‘Invite him aboard.’
The visitors climbed to the deck. Their leader was a dignified old gentleman with eyes like blue buttons and a neat fringe of white beard. He searched all their faces before offering Vallon his hand.
‘He’s a chieftain,’ Wayland said. ‘His name’s Ottar Thordar son. He owns a hall that we might find suitable. It’s about ten miles from the coast.’
Ottar was eyeing the contents of the hold with polite avidity.
‘What does he want in return?’
‘He’s interested in buying our timber.’
Vallon looked into Ottar’s candid blue eyes. ‘He’s welcome to take a closer look.’
The visitors walked around the hold, discussing the timber. Finally, Ottar stopped, passed one hand across his mouth and nodded.
‘He says he’ll take the lot,’ Wayland said.
Vallon laughed. ‘We’ll negotiate once we’ve seen the house.’
‘We can visit it today. That’s why he brought spare horses.’
‘You and I will go,’ said Vallon. ‘Raul, you’re in charge of the ship.’
The sun was on the rise when they set off inland. The fields soon fell behind and they followed a rough road beaten out on a plain of lava. Wayland had never seen such an inhospitable landscape. Ottar took pride in pointing out its diabolic features — underground furnaces, mountains that melted and flowed like rivers, springs hot enough to boil a cow.
‘Do falcons live here?’ Wayland asked. ‘White ones?’
‘Yes, there are falcons,’ said Ottar. He pointed east towards a range of peaks floating in the clear air. ‘Two days’ ride. Three days’ ride.’
Wayland fell back alongside Vallon. ‘He says there are falcons.’
Vallon smiled. ‘Good.’ He patted Wayland’s arm. ‘Good.’
They rode on and came to a district so cauterised that not a blade of grass or patch of lichen had taken hold. Steam wafted up from the ground and the stink of brimstone caught in the back of Wayland’s throat. Off to their left stood a smoking black mountain resembling the remains of a gargantuan bonfire. They breasted a bare horizon and sat looking down into a broad river valley partly inundated by lava. Near the river stood a large farmstead isolated between lobes of slag. The road took a diversion close to the house and then went wriggling away to the east.
‘What happened here?’ Vallon asked.
‘This is Ottar’s hall,’ Wayland said. ‘His family built it in the first settlement. They’ve farmed here for two hundred years. This used to be one of the most fertile valleys in Iceland, but last spring Ottar woke in the night and saw flames spewing from that mountain. By morning molten rock had begun to flow into the valley. For three months streams of lava crept across the fields, and by winter Ottar had to abandon the hall. He’s building a new one on the other side of his estate. He was going to salvage the beams from the old house, but he’d prefer to let the hall die in its own time and stand as a monument to his ancestors. That’s why he wants our timber.’
Vallon looked at Ottar. He looked at the hall. ‘Tell him he has first refusal.’
They descended towards the house, the horses treading with care on the lava. The hall resembled a giant upturned ship entirely carpeted with turf. An old woman came out of a ramshackle outbuilding and limped weeping across a tiny meadow grazed by a solitary cow. She showered kisses on Ottar’s hand and he jumped down and kissed her cheeks and held her by her shoulders and spoke in soothing and affectionate tones.
‘Her name’s Gisla,’ Wayland told Vallon. ‘She was nurse to Ottar’s children. Her own kin lie buried in a cemetery that was covered by the lava, and she didn’t want to leave them. She’ll cook and clean for us. Ottar says she talks a lot. She’s lonely.’
Vallon slid off his horse and studied the house. Its turf eaves were so low that the structure looked like it had grown out of the ground. Wildflowers grew on its roof. Ottar opened the door and led them into the shadowy interior. A bird like the one that had landed on the ship fluttered from beam to beam before escaping into the light. Wayland felt that he’d been in the hall before. It was a replica of the home his grandfather had told him about. Here was the main chamber arranged around the long pit hearth where the menfolk gathered to eat and talk, and there were the retainers’ bunks against each wall. Down that end was the booth where the householders retired for privacy, and above it was a gallery for their daughters. Wayland ran his hand over figures carved on the timber supports.
‘Ottar’s four sons and four daughters grew up here. It was a happy place.’
‘Excuse us one moment,’ said Vallon.
They went to the door. Through the aperture Wayland could see blue sky dotted with a few shavings of cloud. A rider passed in slow silhouette along the road.
