The Tale of Melkorka Read online

  The Tale of Melkorka

  Octavia Randolph

  Copyright © 2013 Octavia Randolph

  Octavia Randolph asserts the moral authority to be identified as the author of this work.

  All Rights Reserved.

  Table of Contents

  Part One: The Slave

  Part Two: The Princess

  Part One: The Slave

  Iceland, the Year 948

  THE Laxardal valley is the greenest of all Iceland. It was there that Hoskuldr had his farm. He was one of the many great-grandsons of Unnr the Deep-Minded, a woman of such boldness and sagacity that her like has never again been seen on the island. All of Unnr’s daughters were admirable women, her sons stout-hearted and brave; but just as a fine mare will throw a beautiful colt but that colt’s get be not as fast or handsome as the founding mare, so did Unnr’s descendants drop in distinction with each generation.

  Nevertheless Hoskuldr was held in high standing amongst the folk of Laxardal. As a boy he had journeyed far with his father, trading wool and hides in Eire, Angle-land, and coastal Norway. When it came time to choose a wife Hoskuldr felt it his due to visit every farm which had a likely daughter so he could judge for himself; he would not wed by his parents’ counsel only. He settled on a woman named Jorunn, whose family’s farm, past the ridge by the deep fjord named Bjarnarfjord, was two day’s hard riding from that of Hoskuldr. Jorunn was of strong mind and a little older than most maids when they wed; word was she would prove a good manager of stocks and stores but not be of the easiest temper. This was fine with Hoskuldr, for he aimed to be rich and wanted a woman who could help him to his goal.

  So Hoskuldr set out across a treeless plain for Bjarnarfjord, glimpsing distant ridges and furrows of blackened lava, the spew of still-rumbling volcanoes. The lichen and ferns unfurled like a grey-green sea around his horse’s hooves.

  “I find no fault in your wooing of her,” answered Jorunn’s father, Bjorn, when Hoskuldr came to ask after her. In a show of wealth Hoskuldr had arrived at Bjorn’s farm with nine of his own men. Each of them was mounted on a splendid horse, and Bjorn, who was prosperous himself, took good note of this display. Hoskuldr and his men had been at the farm two days now, during which Bjorn and his wife had been feeding an extra ten men. But it had given Jorunn’s parents the chance to see the way in which the young people had eyed each other.

  “But she must have the last say,” Bjorn told him. “She’s not a filly who is easily led, and she has turned down others.”

  Hoskuldr went and found Jorunn where she was sitting on a wooden bench carding wool with her young sisters. The snow which never melted glistened on the far hills beyond the farm yard, and between the mountains and the farm’s sheep-folds lay a broad expanse of bright green grasses, just beginning to yellow in the waning summer. Hoskuldr thought he had rarely seen a prettier sight than the yellow-haired girls framed by that waving sea of grass. He had been pleased from the first by Jorunn. She was well-formed, as blonde as a drying hayrick and nearly as tall. Hoskuldr, who was broad-shouldered but not much above mid-height, found himself eye to eye with her when they first stood together.

  Jorunn could guess what he was there for. Her little sisters ran up to Hoskuldr to say hello, all but the next eldest to her, who was old enough to show some indifference when a man came wooing.

  They all knew who he was, had seen him summers at the Thingvellir when the law code was read out, where disputes were decided, and families all over Iceland came together looking to marry off sons and daughters and buy sheep and cattle. Jorunn had never spoken to Hoskuldr, but she knew he was wealthy and a grandson of Unnr the Deep-Minded. His farm was one of the largest in the Laxardal valley; he had twenty men, and just as many serving folk. She knew too, that his farm possessed a hot spring, one of the best around, with ready water bubbling summer and winter. He had a large herd of spotted cattle and one even larger of shaggy grey sheep. In the past two days she had seen he was decently mannered at table, and knew to laugh at her father’s jests. So of course she knew why he was there. So, neither rising nor stopping in her work, she looked up at him.

  “Come and walk with me,” he said. He felt strongly that if she accepted this first invitation, she would accept his second.

  Hoskuldr and Jorunn Bjornsdottir were wed early next summer, the traditional time for weddings in Iceland, so that the first babe might be born in the spring with the hope of fresh grass and thus milk and cheeses so that the new mother would thrive. And in fact Jorunn’s first babe was born next spring, a boy, followed by another boy, and then a girl. The weather was good, the farm prospered, and Hoskuldr and Jorunn, though not known for being overly affectionate to each other, were widely acknowledged to have made a good match.

  ~~~~

  As the years went on Hoskuldr began to be eager for a larger house, for he judged the one he had did not reflect his growing wealth. It had low rock walls, and set upon them some stout old timbers, now growing soft; and a roof of thin slabs of stone, covered thick with lichen. Within was one large room, like all Icelandic houses, pocketed around with sleeping alcoves against the walls, and a firepit in the centre. As he was rich, he had also a strong-room, set apart, in which he kept his weapons, silver, and stores of grain. But as the weather had continued good and his flocks and animals thrived, he wanted to add more men to his household, and to house them and his own family he began to plan for a larger house. To build it he would need to sail to buy timber, for even then Iceland had little woods left. People built from rock and sod and any wood they found washed up upon the pebbly beaches, planks from ruined ships or sometimes whole tree trunks cast up as driftwood. Men were known to fight and even kill each other for such resources as these.

  “I’ll add onto the main hall, with new sleeping alcoves for the children, and a larger strong-room for our goods,” he promised.

  Jorunn felt the house plenty large enough, and that a new shed and a young milk cow to fill it was what was most needed. And each time Hoskuldr travelled, whether to trade their wool or butter or buy linen or iron, Jorunn was left alone with the running of the farm and all its inmates. The day he had made his pronouncement she had been green with child-sickness, and though she was glad at the prospect of a new babe she did not want to be left all the added work and worry, caring for the farm and children by herself.

  But her husband was firm, and she could do no more than help him pack his kit as he readied his ship and six of his men to journey with him. He was bound right for Norway, land of boundless forests.

  It was late summer, a time of dry and calm weather, and Hoskuldr, who was a skilled sailor, made good time across the Norwegian Sea, and then coasting South until he reached the largest trading post in Hordaland. He had no problem finding twenty long pine trunks, well dried, stripped of branches and bark and ready to be planed at home. He had them loaded on board his ship, but the weather stayed fair, and he did not start back at once. Being at the trading post reminded him of his boyhood, when he would go off with his father, who had spent each summer buying and selling, and in doing so had built up the family’s silver to considerable degree. Hoskuldr had not the same nose for trading; he had watched his father and knew it was a sort of calling to do it well. He rarely travelled far, and having done so now, reflected how different a man he felt away from his farm in the Laxardal valley, as fine as that was. Given the good weather, he was in no rush to return to Iceland and the coming winter. He determined to relax and enjoy himself before he set off.

  He spent a day or two at the ale-booths, drinking and throwing dice, and then bored with that, wandered through the various stalls of the traders, stopping at one or another but not buying. A new stall had be
en set up that morning, hung with striped linen awnings, brightly woven. A table was set at the front of the stall, with a man standing near it. Hoskuldr thought he had rarely seen an odder looking trader. He wore blue robes of particular ornateness, trimmed with silver fox tails, dark red leather shoes which ended in slightly curled-up points, and had upon his head a conical hat made of otter or some other dusky dense fur. He had ruddy cheeks and dark brown moustaches that stuck almost straight out above the line of his upper lip. As Hoskuldr neared, the trader gave a bow.

  “I am Gilli. Gilli the Russian is what I am called, as I have spent time amongst the Rus. Welcome.” And he lifted his arm to the wares on the table. “Something to take back to your wife.”

  Hoskuldr kept his hands behind his back and glanced down at the table. It was laden with brooches, bracelets, necklaces, fancy shears, needle-cases and everything else a woman troubles her husband for. He had no intention of buying anything for Jorunn; the expanded house would be present enough for her. Still, he could see that these were no mean trinkets. Every brooch was of either silver or gold; there was no cheap bronze-work lying amongst the finery. The silver neck chains were closely-worked and dazzling; the twisted gold bracelets glinted with their honest worth.

  Gilli the Russian sized him up and saw no purse would be opened for baubles.

  “Ah. No wife,” Gilli pardoned in a calm tone. “Well then, I have other goods. Perhaps a little female company will suit. Someone to cook and clean.”

  Between the trader and the back of the stall hung a broad linen weaving, of the same striped design of the tent itself. Hoskuldr now saw it was suspended from a line from the ridge of the tent. He watched as Gilli took the linen in both fists and pulled it back over the line from which it hung.

  There in the back of the tent set a bench, and on it ten or twelve women. They were slaves, dressed in the rude gowns and ragged head dresses of slaves. They looked out at Hoskuldr with the blank look of the lost. They were all fairly young and most of them fairly comely.

  But one did not look at Hoskuldr. She was seated at the very end of the bench, her face turned away to the tent wall as if she refused to be looked at. The action of twisting her body had caused her gown to pull tightly against her flesh, so that the outline of her breasts and waist was clear. Even though her face was nearly in profile to him he could see she possessed unusual beauty. She was very young, perhaps fourteen or fifteen years only. Her skin was pale and delicate; he saw her eye was of a blueness that would shame a cornflower; and her nose was small and straight. He could not see even one strand of her hair as her head-wrap covered it completely. He wondered what the colour would be. Even though she kept herself turned away from him, he found it hard to take his eyes from her. He studied the arch of her back.

  Hoskuldr wanted her in a way he could not recall wanting a woman.

  His head swam. “How much?” was what he asked.

  “One mark of silver, each,” answered Gilli.

  “I’ll have the one at the end,” came Hoskuldr’s quick reply.

  “Ah. That one is three marks.”

  “Three marks! Three times that of the others? You must value her highly to ask such a high price.”

  The trader studied Hoskuldr’s face for a moment. “You must admit she is exceptionally fine,” countered Gilli.

  “But three marks! No woman is worth that!” And at this Hoskuldr thought he saw the girl stiffen the more where she sat upon the bench. Even his tone must have conveyed an insult to her.

  Gilli stood there smiling at him, and after a long moment began to pull the bunched up linen back across the line which held it. Soon the slave girl would be out of view.

  Without thinking Hoskuldr found himself reaching for his purse. He pulled out the three marks of silver, nearly all he had left after buying the timber.

  “Here,” he told Gilli.

  He felt so angry he wanted to throw the silver at the trader, but mastered himself just enough to place it in the man’s palm. Gilli looked down at the silver and gently placed it upon his scale. Then he turned back to his customer.

  “Just one thing more. I will have no man say Gilli is dishonest. The woman has a flaw.”

  Hoskuldr opened his mouth to protest, but Gilli kept on in his mild voice.

  “She is a mute. I have had her only a few days, but it is clear that although she hears and can understand a little of what I say, she cannot speak.”

  Hoskuldr stood there, considering this. He feared some sort of deformity with the girl, and to hear she could not speak began to strike him as altogether desirable.

  “Even the other women have tried; she is an honest mute,” ended the trader.

  Hoskuldr stood there nodding his head like an ox.

  Gilli was discreet. “She will be a prized gift for your wife at home; a most serviceable slave-woman.”

  Hoskuldr again nodded; yes, of course, he could take this slave back to Jorunn as his gift.

  ~~~~

  The slave-girl followed Hoskuldr the rest of the day. He bought her food and a new gown less shabby than that she wore. She received these things without any response, not even a nod of her head. At one point he moved his hand close to her head-wrap so he could glimpse her hair. Her eyes widened. She pulled back and he slapped her. She scarcely flinched.

  “You are my slave now,” he warned. He gave a little tug on the linen and saw the brilliant red of her hair. It surprised him; with skin so pale he thought her blonde. He let her go and she arranged her head wrap once again.

  That night he told his men to sleep on land and took her to his ship. For hours he had been looking forward to this, but when he finally had her alone and to himself he grew cautious. “Let me see if you really speak,” he said. He took her wrist in his hand and gave her forearm a strong pinch. She winced. He pinched harder, twisting the tender flesh hard. She made a strangled sound like a drowning kitten. But nothing more. He stopped then. Safe in her silence, he pushed her down upon his bed roll. The next day when he saw the dark bruise on her wrist he looked away in something like shame.

  ~~~~

  It took almost ten days to reach Iceland. As they grew nearer Hoskuldr began to think what Jorunn would say about her present. For by this time he had convinced himself that he had in fact bought the girl as a gift. He tried to forget Jorunn was forever taking the slaves they had to task, complaining they did not earn their keep and wanting him to sell or barter them. “I’d rather have the help of my sisters and a good young milk cow than the lot of them together,” she had said last spring. Now here he was come with another, and one he wasn’t sure could cook or weave or do anything useful at all, not to mention to Jorunn’s standards.

  By day the slave sat in the prow of the boat, looking out over the waves. His men knew enough to ignore her, and she ate apart from all of them, like the slave she was. Every night he went under his low slung tent with her, but she was not what he had wished she was, lying still and unblinking beneath him. Each time he dealt with her more roughly. In fact her silence unnerved him, and nearly unmanned him. When they could see the hills rimming the Laxardal valley he thrust a silver coin in each of his mens’ hands. He needn’t have said anything, nor did he.

  Hoskuldr had the timber unloaded and borrowed two long ox carts from a farmer named Thorkel to pull it to his farm deep in the valley. As he walked at the head of the oxen he could feel the presence of the slave girl, walking behind him. He had seen the way Thorkel and his wife had looked at him, the girl in tow. Hoskuldr reminded himself he was a rich farmer and deserved a pleasing slave. Yet he felt less than pleased. He began again. He was a rich farmer and could afford to bring his wife a special gift –

  But now they were within hailing distance of his farm, and as they plodded up the track between the fields to the house his daughter, standing in the forecourt, saw him and began to run around to the farm yard to her mother.

  Jorunn came out from where she had been num
bering the fowl, wiping her hands on her apron, to which a few feathers were stuck. She was five months along with her fourth child and her back already ached. She propped her hands up on her hips to ease the pain.

  She looked at the two heavily laden ox carts for a second’s flick of the eye, and then at Hoskuldr, her expression a mixture of exhaustion and relief. Then Hoskuldr stopped before her, and the slave walking behind him stopped too.

  Jorunn looked at the girl, who although her face was cast down, was more lovely than she had any right to be.

  “What’s this?” Jorunn said, before Hoskuldr could offer a word of greeting.

  “A gift,” offered Hoskuldr. His wife stood there, eyes flicking between him and the girl, and he added, “A gift, for you,” in case she hadn’t understood.

  Jorunn rocked back on her heels. “I’ve been asking for a milk cow, and you bring me her?”

  The look on Hoskuldr’s face told Jorunn all she needed to know. She was not a woman who, when Hoskuldr was away, went dallying at other men’s’ farm gates. And she expected the same of Hoskuldr.

  “Some milk cow!” Jorunn continued. “And it will be a wonder if one of your bulls hasn’t gotten to her already!”

  ~~~~

  The new slave was put to heavy work, scrubbing burnt pots, hauling buckets of water, boiling the washing at the hot springs and wringing it out around a fence pole. The fact that the girl was a mute made Jorunn dislike her the more, as if, besides her beauty, the girl had an additional distinction forbidden to others. The serving folk and other slaves avoided the girl as much as they could, for she was clearly a bane to their mistress. Hoskuldr, too, kept away from her, and began to rue the day Gilli the Russian had pulled back the linen and revealed her to him. The girl had been a disappointment in everything, and he could hardly allow himself to think back to the nights with her on his ship.

  He decided he would sell her as soon as possible. There was no one in all of Iceland who would give him his three marks of silver for her, but he was almost ready to give her away. At least with the girl out of the house Jorunn, still frosty, might soften to him.