The king's holding, I soon learned, was but one of three. In addition to his port, Harald maintained a summer settlement, with fields and cattle, and a winter holding where he drank and hunted during the cold months. As he planned to sail from Skania with the next full moon, the king had brought only those people he would need to the port settlement; the rest remained elsewhere.
In the days to follow, I roamed the holding at will, and even explored the furthest extent of the small cove without raising objection. Occasionally, I was given some small chore to do-carrying wood, fetching water, or feeding the pigs. One morning, two of the king's men came and replaced my leather collar with one of iron, whereupon they took it into their heads to beat me. They hit me and kicked me so hard I lost consciousness and could hardly walk for three days. Otherwise, I was left to myself. This, despite the fact that everyone was busy dawn to dusk readying supplies and provisions for the king's great raiding journey.
For myself, I determined that I would use my time to improve my mastery of the Danefolk speech as much as I could, and I rehearsed that uncouth tongue until my lips grew limp and my head ached. Even so, time hung heavy on me, and I thought often of Gunnar and his family, and wished I was back with them.
The season turned, passing swiftly from summer to a chill, damp autumn. The wind changed and blew more insistently from the north and east; the sun sank ever lower in the sky. I marked the changes and occupied myself as best I could, being careful to stay out of the warriors' way lest any of them take the opportunity to beat me again. Then, two days before the king was to leave, he suddenly remembered me, and I was summoned by one of the karlar to his hall.
Harald's hall was much like Ragnar's-slightly larger, perhaps, but essentially the same. Nor was there much difference in the affairs conducted there. The hearth was large and accommodating, the benches long, the board wide and perpetually filled with men eating and drinking any time of the day or night. Unlike Ragnar, however, Harald Bull-Roar had an oaken throne established at the south side of the hearth; the back of this huge chair was shaped like a great shield, with boss and studs of polished bronze, and a rim of silver secured with golden nails. The king's bare feet rested on a low stool covered with the white winter pelts of young seals.
The warrior pushed me before the throne and left without a word. The king, who was talking to one of the advisors forever clustered about the throne, saw me out of the corner of his eye and sent his confidant away. Placing his hands on his knees, Harald stared at me in no friendly way, slowly squinting his eyes as if what he saw standing before him was not altogether to his liking.
"They tell me," he said after a moment, "that you speak to yourself. Why is this?"
I answered straightaway. "It is to learn the ways of the Danefolk speech."
He pursed his lips, accepting this answer without comment. Then, as if making an observation: "You are of the Shaven Ones."
As no answer seemed required of me, I remained silent.
"Do you understand what I am saying to you now?" the king demanded.
"Yes, jarl," I replied. "I understand."
"Then make an answer."
"It is true, lord, I am of the Shaven Ones."
"And do you know the making of runor?"
"Lord, forgive me, I do not know this word. What is runor?"
The king puffed his cheeks in exasperation. "Runor… runor! Like this-" Harald clicked his fingers impatiently. One of his men produced a rolled-up skin, which the king unrolled and thrust at me.
I looked at it and saw that it was a crudely drawn map with a list of settlements down one side; next to each settlement was a terse description of the people who lived in the region and the trade to be had there. It was written in Latin, and I told the king that if these were what he called runor, then, yes, I could indeed read them without difficulty.
If I thought this would please Jarl Harald, I was mistaken. He snapped his fingers again and another scroll appeared. "And this?" he demanded, throwing the roll at me.
Unwrapping the roll, I gazed at the antiquated document. "This I can read also," I told him.
"Tell me what is written there," he said, making of the request a challenge.
Glancing at the parchment again, I saw that it was a tally of some sort-such as might be made of goods in a storehouse; it was written in Greek. I shared this observation with the king, whereupon he said, "Nay, nay. Speak it out."
I began to do so, but had only uttered half a dozen words, when he stopped me. "Nay! Tell it in Danespeak."
"Forgive me, jarl," I said, and began again. "Barley, six bags…salt bacon, three sides…oil of olives, seven small casks…"
"Enough," said Harald distractedly. He looked at me hard, as if trying to decide whether to press me further, or banish me from his sight forever. After a moment, he appeared to resolve something within himself, for he lifted his hand and summoned two of his karlar, who approached carrying a wooden trove box; the box was bound in iron bands and had an odd peaked top like the roof of a house.
The treasure box was opened and a square object wrapped in cloth lifted out, and placed in the king's hands. Harald took the cloth-wrapped bundle into his lap and began unwrapping the long binding strips. I caught a glint of silver as one by one the strips of cloth fell away. Then the king was holding the thing and beckoning me forward.
I do not know what I expected to see. But the sight that met my eyes made my heart leap into my throat. I gasped at the sight of it, and stared in heart-sick astonishment at the object in his hands. For there, almost within my very grasp, lay the cumtach of Colum Cille.
Not the whole book, no-that would have held no interest to a marauding Sea Wolf-but the great book's gem-crusted silver cover was more than pleasing to their greedy eyes.
Kyrie eleison, I breathed. Lord have mercy! Christ have mercy!
King Harald opened the cover and I saw that a few leaves yet remained-three or perhaps four, not many; likely, they had come away in the haste of pillage. To my holy horror, the king took one of these pages and cut it from the others with his knife. It was all I could do to keep from crying out. The Book of Colum Cille was desecrated.
"Speak it," said the king, offering the sacred page to me.
But I could not speak. With trembling fingers I lifted the fragment to my eyes-one of the initial pages of the Gospel known as Matthew's Book-and looked once more upon the richly glowing colours and the impossibly intricate braiding of the knotwork cross, the spirals and keys and triscs-all the while thinking: Great Father, forgive them, they know not what they do.
"Speak it!" commanded the king again, more sternly this time.
Mastering my distress, I forced myself to calmness under the king's gaze. It would not do, I thought, to allow him to see that I held any knowledge of the book. Even then, my very heart breaking, I reckoned my best hope of remaining close to the treasure was to betray no attachment.
Turning the page in my hands, I scanned the lines-the page was one of those written in our own abbey. I opened my mouth and read out the passage-I do not know what I read. The words swam before my eyes, and it was all I could to do keep my hand steady. One line, and then another-my voice ringing hollow in my ears: "Now when Jesu was born in Bethlehem in Judea during the reign of Herod the King, behold, Magi from the East came to Jerusalem-"