The first carriage appeared on the horizon a little after noon, just visible over the unripe tips of wheat. It was bedecked in pennants which fluttered merrily in the breeze. Tall Orvendr, who saw it first, said: “Looks more like a child’s toy than a carriage for a lord.”
“Lords shouldn’t ride in carriages anyway,” said Hrjota, standing watch next to him. “They should be on horseback. How is anyone supposed to respect them otherwise?”
“Like you can ride a horse to save your life, winkle-brain,” said Birger. He’d been in a foul mood since the previous evening when he’d had to stride into a camp full of his shield-brothers and explain that no, the gruesome bloody mess of his face wasn’t the result of some fierce yet ultimately successful battle with a respectable enemy, but geese. Whenever he closed his eyes he saw the grins of fifty Vikings swearing gleefully that they would never forget this day and never allow Birger to forget either.
Orvendr sniffed. “Maybe he’s old.”
“Maybe he’s lazy.”
“Maybe you’re lazy.”
“Oi, Vandal!” This came from one of the local girls who sat washing linen in the yard behind them.
Hrjota, who spoke a bit of Rus, yelled back: “Viking!”
“What?”
“We’re not Vandals, we’re Vikings.”
“Whatever, my fair-haired Visigoth friend. Come make yourselves useful fixing this line in place, will you? You can’t expect to get away with just standing there all day.”
Notwithstanding this was exactly what we hoped to do - indeed, exactly what Heidir the Bold had promised us all the previous night on his return, that we would stand around doing nothing for one night and one day and be paid handsomely for our trouble - it didn’t do to show rudeness to one’s host, especially when one’s host is a lovely young woman. (A night and a day is a long time, during which anything could happen.) So the trio grabbed hammer and nails and between a lot of pointing, scowling and mistranslation set to work on the clothesline.
“So the Lady Alena, then? What do you all think of her?” said Hrjota to the nearest washerwoman, who was named Daryna.
“Psk,” said Daryna. “She’s a cold hearted one, for sure. Not one you want to mess with.”
“Is she well liked?”
“Well liked! Does it matter? Lords and ladies don’t usually care, you see. And Lady Alena isn’t even a lady, really. Her father was a silversmith. Married our dear Count Leanid and now thinks she’s better than us. Like she doesn’t need us.”
“How so?”
“Oh, you see how she has no servants? No quarters, no household staff? She keeps none. She lives here alone. Dismissed them all three months ago when Leanid died. Thinks that she can just go live in her house on her own and we’ll come when it suits her and leave when it doesn’t.”
“But you’re here now.”
“Yes, because she puts out the word that she needs hands, and pays in cash! For the harvest, for cleaning, for repairs to the house, and so on and so on. But she doesn’t keep a staff, and the jobs are infrequent and unpredictable. If only she was like a regular lady and kept a maid and a cook, and maybe a page, they’d live in the house and get board and regular pay. But no, our Lady Alena pays for what she wants, when she wants it, and never a peep otherwise.”
“You can’t mean she cooks for herself?”
“Every day. And cleans her wing of the house, and leaves the rest to moulder. And of course the rest of her time she spends tending her bloody geese. I think she thinks herself one of them.”
The image of a house empty but for cobwebs and geese was completely at odds with the house we now saw before us, though. All about was hustle and bustle. It seemed from every village within a day’s walk that everyone and his dog had come to prepare the house for the oncoming cousins. Women scrubbed and lathered and squeezed and wrung, men sawed and nailed and carried and very stood around gossiping and waving hands about to say, “what hard work we are doing! We deserve a break, and preferably some ale.”
For the carriages were drawing close. Fifteen bedchambers were to be made up for the guests, and latrines dug for the camp that was to be pitched outside. Long tables were being improvised from the corpses of old wagons and ferry boats, to be pitched in the yard as overflow to the great hall. And the food! Chickens and piglets and three big bulls had passed through the yard that morning on their way to the butcher who had set up his shop in the barn, and women farmers came through with armfulls of turnips and peas and cabbage. After all, if not enough was ready for the evening, it was the villagers who would go without.
And all through this the brothers of the Varangian Brigade mingled with the crowd and looked at everything with awe but also suspicion. Only twenty-five of our number had been brought up from the Vegr to attend the proceedings, the remainder left behind under the eye of Hrafn Heidir’s brother and old Frodr and told to pretend very hard that they didn’t exist. Atop the hill the ones who did exist sharpened spears and hefted axes and made sure the villagers saw them doing it. After all, we Norsemen are an honest folk, and we want everyone to be aware that we know how to use our ugly double-edged swords, because otherwise someone might do something they regretted and get hurt. This is the thing we are best at in all the world: preventing people from doing things they regret.
Orvendr said, “They’re here.”
And he was right. The carriage with the pennants, which up close turned out to be finely wood-pannelled and drawn by two big horses, was making its way up the drive. We took our positions by the gate and stood shoulder to shoulder with one hand on our shields and the other on the pommel of our sword or axe - not as a threat, mind you! Just a sign of respect. The villagers stopped what they were doing to watch and mutter.
Men wearing white robes over fine chain mail rode alongside and when the carriage pulled to a halt immediately jumped down to open the door. Out climbed a young man with a nose like a beetroot, followed by an older woman who had similar features and any idiot could have seen was his mother. The great doors opened and the Lady Alena started out of the house to greet them.
“This is Prince Artem,” whispered Daryna. “The son of Leanid’s late brother. And there his mother Oksana.”
The youth looked around, rubbed his nose, and sneezed an almighty sneeze that set the war-geese in the next field cackling. Over the tips of the wheat another carriage was already on its way.