Harvest time sped by Murdo in a dull blur of sweat and fatigue. Day after day, he dragged his aching body out of bed at first light, pulled on his clothes, and was in the fields by dawn, where he laboured until long into the radiant northern twilight, pausing only to break fast at midday, and then again for supper. He took his meals in the field with the vassals and, like his father, worked elbow to elbow with them, never allowing himself even so much as a swallow of water unless he could offer them the same.
By the time the last sheaf of grain had been gathered and the last lonely kernel gleaned, Murdo knew deep in every bone and sinew that he had never worked so hard, nor accomplished so much. The fact that the final three rows were harvested under black, threatening skies with the rumble of thunder in the distance only increased his sense of triumph. When the last wagon trundled into the yard and the oxen were led to the barn, he stood and gazed proudly at the great stacks of yellow grain, marvelling at the achievement. When his mother came and put her arm around his shoulder in a gentle hug, Murdo could not have been more delighted if heaps of gold had been mined and stored away.
'You have done well, Murdo,' his mother told him. 'I cannot remember a richer harvest. Your father could not have done better, and he would tell you the same if he were here.'
'The weather remained dry, and that helped,' he replied sagely. Casting an eye towards the dark clouds overhead, he added, 'I feared the storm would take the last, but it can rain from now until Yuletide and I will not breathe a word of complaint.'
'A harvest like this deserves a feast,' Niamh suggested. 'Tomorrow we will celebrate. Tell the tenants and vassals, and then choose a pig-oh, and one of the yearling calves, too. We will make it a fine harvest celebration.'
As his mother hurried off to begin ordering the preparations, Murdo stood for a time admiring his handiwork. Then, adopting the manner of the absent lord himself, he strode into the barn where the workers were placing the last sheaves onto the stack, and began praising the men for their diligence and hard work. 'Tomorrow will be a feast-day at Hrafnbu farm,' he told them, and bade them bring wives, children and their old ones to help observe the festivities properly. Leaving the others to finish in the barn, Murdo and Fossi went to the cattle pens to choose the calf and pig for the feast.
Fossi was the family's oldest and most trusted servingman. Though his hair had grown grey in the service of Lord Ranulf's father, he still moved with the spry step of a man twenty years younger; his eye was as clear and his hand as steady as Murdo's. Never one to speak two words where one would do, that one word was worth ten of anyone else's. Old Fossi could be relied on to say what he thought without regard to rank or favour.
'What think you, Fossi?' asked Murdo as they leaned on the enclosure fence.
'The gathering-in?'
'Yes. How do you mark it?'
'I marks it right fair.'
They stood a little in silence before Murdo coaxed some more out of him. 'I am thinking it is better than last year,' Murdo suggested.
'Oh, aye,' agreed Fossi.
'We shall have enough to plant the new field, I think,' Murdo ventured. Lord Ranulf had cleared a patch of ground to the south of the present barley field earlier in the summer, and it was Murdo's plan to sow it in the spring as his father intended.
'Aye,' Fossi concurred, 'we will.'
Satisfied with this, Murdo chose a fine, fat calf from among the yearlings, and one of the pigs. 'Mind you do not take Red William by mistake,' Murdo warned. 'He is for the Yule board.'
Fossi frowned and regarded Murdo with dark disapproval for impugning his abilities, but said nothing. Leaving Fossi to oversee the butchering, Murdo walked back to the house, tired in every muscle, but glowing with a contentment he would have envied in anyone else. The first drops of rain splashed into the dust at his feet as he reached the yard; he paused and stood as the rain pattered down around him, feeling the cool splashes on his upturned face.
The good weather held long enough for the folk of Hrafnbu to enjoy their feast the next day, but after that a gale broke in full across the isles. The golden autumn dissolved in a rainy haze that did not lift, giving way instead to cold, grey days of rain and snow. Winter came early and stayed long, but the great house and its inhabitants remained in good spirits, passing a fine, if somewhat subdued, Yuletide with guests from the neighbouring farms.
Murdo reluctantly returned to his wintertime pursuit of Latin, and made steady progress in both reading and speech. His natal day passed uneventfully and unmarked, save for his mother's thoughtful present of one of Lord Ranulf's best hunting spears-one which Murdo had secretly coveted for some time. True, it was not the swordtaking he would have wished, but it would have to do until his father returned. He prized the spear, and alternated his Latin with hunting from then on.
Following the turn of the year, he and his mother, along with some of the neighbours, rode to the church at Saint Mary's for the Feast of the Virgin. They stayed seven nights at Borgvik, the estate of Jarl Erlend's younger sister, Cecilia, and her family. There were many young people, but no one Murdo's age, and while the older people made vague attempts to include him in their conversations, all the talk of fishing and farming soon grew wearisome and he decided to play games with the children instead.
Upon their return to the bu, Murdo began the task of repairing the tools and equipment for the spring planting. Besides that, there was the lambing to think about, but mostly the days remained uncluttered and he had time to himself. He occupied himself with riding the estate, often taking the spear and, with two or three of the tenants' sons, trying his hand at hunting for the table. The woods at the end of the valley yielded a young stag, and though they often saw wild pigs, they were never able to get close enough to one for a good cast.
Often on these excursions Murdo pretended he was on pilgrimage fighting Saracens. With every throw and thrust of the spear, he struck a decisive blow for Christendom. From time to time, he wondered about his father and brothers. He had no idea how far distant Jerusalem might be, but he thought they must soon be returning. How long could it take to liberate the Holy Land from the slack grasp of a few vexatious Arabs?
According to common opinion, the pilgrims would make short work of it so that they could return to the comforts of home as soon as possible. Murdo decided that his father and brothers would be back well before the next harvest, and he would not have to undertake that chore alone.
Thus the months passed, and winter grudgingly receded. The days grew longer and warmer, and the rains less fierce. As spring firmed its hold on the land, Murdo frequently found himself weighing the possibility of paying a visit to Lord Brusi's estate to see how Lady Ragnhild and her daughter were bearing the lord's absence. Try as he might, however, he could find neither a convenient nor convincing excuse to go to Hrolfsey. Sailing from one island to another was not difficult, but it was not a thing one did casually, and it was not in the way of a simple day's outing. His mother would have to know, and he had no satisfactory means of explaining his sudden interest in the welfare of the Hrolfsey farming estates.
He decided instead to make certain he and his mother attended the Eastertide ceremonies at the cathedral-in the hope that Lady Ragnhild would do the same. It took him several days to work up his courage to broach the subject with her, and then several more to find just the right opportunity to introduce it naturally into the conversation so that she would not suspect him of plotting anything. His chance came one night when, after their supper, he and Lady Niamh were sitting in their chairs before the hearth. His mother was mending a siarc, and he was stropping a knife on a length of leather when his mother said, 'We will soon begin our Lenten observances.'
'Is Eastertide so near?' he wondered, assuming an air of astonishment. 'I suppose it must be. What with the planting and all, I had completely forgotten.'
This statement, uttered with innocent sincerity, caused his mother to look up from her needle to regard him curiously. Murdo continued stropping the knife, aware of her glance, but betraying no sign. After a moment, Lady Niamh resumed her sewing. 'We must give a thought to Eastertide preparations,' she said.
'Did we go to the cathedral last year?' Murdo asked. 'I have forgotten.'
