Bjarni had some choices to make in terms of where he should go. He could go back to Norway, of course. It was where he was born, and he still had kin there. But he wasn’t sure in what favor he’d be viewed, or whether Einar’s ties were stronger than his, and frankly retracing his steps does not appear to be something Bjarni liked to do. He knew, of course, of the route via the Shetlands and Faroes to Iceland, and he probably had kin there. Icelandic ships put in at Orkney, and Bjarni doubtless knew all about the land of fire and ice, the harsh and unforgiving terrain, and the long cold nights. Iceland fared rather poorly in comparison to the lush and fertile lands of Orkney, it had to be said, even if it did have an air of adventure to it. It did not take him long to decide Iceland was not somewhere he wanted to go. He’d heard rumors, too, of lands even farther west and even less hospitable. So Bjarni heeded his brother’s advice and took the route he knew as well as any other, to the west, to the lands where he’d raided every year with Sigurd, and where he thought some support in his difficulties with Einar might lie.
And so Bjarni headed for Caithness in northern Scotland. Caithness fell under the control of the earls of Orkney some of the time and was fertile hunting ground for loot most of the time. Indeed, the Orkney earl credited with taking Caithness was an earlier Earl Sigurd, this one known as Sigurd the Powerful. There is a legend about this Sigurd, that he died because he tied his vanquished enemy’s severed head to his saddle. The dead man bit Sigurd’s leg and Sigurd succumbed to the wound. A good story to be sure, and probably not true, but it does give some idea of the animosity that existed between the Vikings on one side and the Picts and Scots on the other.
At this particular juncture, Caithness and neighboring Sutherland to the south belonged to Einar’s youngest brother Thorfinn, who had been given it by his grandfather King Malcolm of Scotland. The boy was too young to rule but advisors were appointed by the king. A number of Orkney men who had suffered under Einar’s tyranny, or like Bjarni had provoked his wrath, had gone to Caithness to enjoy the support of young Thorfinn.
But this would not be true for Bjarni. You’ve probably already guessed by now that Bjarni was of somewhat intemperate disposition, rather prone to setting disputes with his Viking axe rather than negotiation. He had left Orkney a little short of provisions, given his haste, and so he did what he’d always done: he helped himself to what he needed. The trouble was he met with some resistance in the form of the brother of one of Thorfinn’s advisors. Bjarni emerged from the little set-to as the victor, but it didn’t do him much good. The brother was dead, and Bjarni was once again on the run.
Glasgow is Charles Rennie Mackintosh’s city. It was here that he was born, where he studied at the Glasgow School of Art, and here that he formed the Glasgow Four, with fellow draftsman Herbert McNair, and two sisters, Frances and Margaret Macdonald, both members of a group of women art students who called themselves, rather fetchingly, the Immortals. The Four developed a unique body of work, an unusual design aesthetic, which is often now referred to as Glasgow School, a subset of the Arts and Crafts movement, and indeed of Art Nouveau. Herbert went on to marry Frances, and Charles married Margaret, who collaborated with her husband from that time on.
Mackintosh’s work is everywhere in Glasgow, having finally achieved the hometown recognition denied him during his lifetime. Not that Mackintosh was deterred by this lack of acceptance while he lived: he boldly laid claim to being Scotland’s greatest architect. True or not, the remaining examples of his work have become places of some modest pilgrimage for those who love Arts and Crafts design. Mackintosh’s designs for furniture, textiles, posters, lighting, clocks and so on, are now much admired and indeed coveted. You can eat Scottish salmon on brown bread in the faithfully reproduced Willow Tearooms that Mackintosh designed for Miss Catherine Cranston. You can walk the hallowed halls of the Glasgow School of Art where Mackintosh not only studied, but which he later designed when new quarters were called for. You can see the rooms in which he and Margaret lived, every piece of furniture designed by them, carefully reconstructed in the Hunterian Art Gallery. You will have barely scratched the surface.
I did all of these things. I went to every place that exhibited authentic Mackintosh. I talked to every expert I could find. I peered at every detail, most particularly the locks. I came away convinced that the first cabinet I’d seen was authentic.
While I had no trouble finding Charles Rennie Mackintosh’s ghost in Glasgow, what I couldn’t find was the real John A. Macdonald Antiques. Not on George Square, the address on the receipt in Trevor’s files, nor anywhere else for that matter. In my heart of hearts, I knew I wasn’t going to find them. I just wasn’t prepared to admit it. Before I left home on the buying trip, I’d checked Glasgow telephone listings on the Internet and had done a dealer search on the British Antique Dealers’ Association Website, as well as on other Websites that featured Scottish antique dealers. No John A. Macdonald Antiques.
Still, my optimistic, or perhaps desperate, little soul had decided if I went there I’d find them. Once I’d convinced myself of the notion that I had not been wrong about the writing cabinet, further self-delusion was not only possible, but essentially effortless.
Glasgow had not been a regular stopping place for me, and I had been looking forward to it. It has a reputation for being one of the, if not the, most stylish city in Britain— edgy, fashionable, and exciting. I had not had time to put my usual careful plans in place for the trip, given the events of the spring and summer, so it was rather more haphazard than usuaclass="underline" I started in Rome, moved on through Tuscany, the south of France, Paris, then over to Ireland, before ending up in London. All along I took digital photos of the merchandise I’d purchased and e-mailed them to Clive so he would first of all know I was on the job, and secondly that he’d have something to show anyone who thought our showroom looked a little bare. From London, I called him to say I couldn’t get a flight back right away, so was going to head for the English countryside for a couple of days for a break. He was actually nice about it, which just served to make me feel guilty, although not guilty enough to forego my intended excursion to Charles Rennie Mackintosh country.
The trouble was, while Glasgow was every bit as interesting as everyone says it is, I got absolutely nowhere on my mission. Indeed it was one step forward, two or three steps back. After walking around George Square twice—it’s a rather impressive place except for rather tatty-looking tents set up in the middle of it for some conference or other—and thence along George Street, and West George Street, too, all without success, I entered the premises of the one antique dealer I could find in the immediate vicinity of George Square, one Lester Campbell, Antiquarian.
“I have a client in Toronto,” I said, after we’d been through the social niceties, and I’d had a brief look around his shop which was rather posh, just the place to look for outrageously expensive furniture. “Someone who is most enchanted by Charles Rennie Mackintosh. He will buy anything by Mackintosh. Do you know of something on the market?”
“I don’t,” Lester Campbell said. “I wish I did. I’d be only too happy to have a client like that.”
“Anybody with a private collection who might be prevailed upon to sell part of it? My client is not without means.”
“No, again. There are lots of reproductions and copies out there, and I suppose a few downright fakes, you know,” he said. In fact I did know that only too well. “The odd piece comes up from time to time. There was a very nice writing cabinet from the mid- to late nineteen-nineties that fetched a rather becoming price at auction.”