drew a piece of iron, a cross, and a clove of garlic out of the king’s nightshirt.
Some of the men behind him gasped. The king caught hold of his hand.
Bjarni laughed. “Tell him he is sinking under the weight of his faith.” He let Red William have the charms again, and the king stuck them away under his shirt. The high color tinged his face.
Bjarni said, “Tell him that he will not die in the straw. That is marked all over him. Who can ask more than that?”
“His grace says you are impudent. He does not understand you. Make yourself plain.”
The king looked angry. With his hand Bjarni saluted him and went out of the room.
THE KING WAS WELL AGAIN the next day. He called Bjarni into the tower and thanked him for destroying the curse.
“I did nothing,” Bjarni said. “The king saved himself.”
The king put a bag of money on the table before him. He said, “There is a ship at Grimsby to take you back to Iceland.”
“Thank you,” Bjarni said, surprised. “You are generous to me.”
The king smiled at him. The Norse priest was translating for them. He said, “His grace says that you have asked nothing of him, and therefore he knows that you are to be trusted. He wishes you to make his name known in your country and to tell your friends and others of the power and the wealth of the King of England. Will you do so?”
That seemed easy enough, and Bjarni agreed to it. They were in the same small room where Bjarni had first spoken to Red William. Two little pages stood by. The king gestured to them, and they brought a beautiful long coat of velvet and lay it on Bjarni’s shoulders, and they put on him a fancy belt and good boots. The king rose in his place. One of the pages brought him a sword.
“Kneel,” said the king.
Bjarni said, “First tell me what this is all about.”
“His grace will knight you and accept you into his service as his man.”
Bjarni began to take off the coat. The king lowered the sword, his face ruddy. Bjarni said, “I am sorry to disappoint him, but I have never knelt down to anybody, except my father.”
The king leaned on the sword. He shouted something at Bjarni, which the priest translated with a smile.
“You will have no ship. You will have to swim back to Iceland.”
Bjarni shrugged. He slung the coat over the table, next to the bag of money.
The king’s blazing blue eyes dimmed. He spoke sharply to a page, who went out. The priest knotted his fingers together. The king sat down again and fixed his gaze on Bjarni. There was a silence.
At last the king spoke. “His grace says that he should have expected this of you. Perhaps to a sorcerer wealth and power are so easy they mean nothing. Take the gifts. Take the ship. The word of such a man as you will have great weight in Iceland; he would rather be spoken of honestly by you than praised by a thousand sycophants.”
Bjarni stood a moment, wondering what to say, and the remaining page brought the coat and helped him put it on again. The page who had gone returned with wine and cups. The king drank from a cup and passed it to Bjarni, who also drank, although he knew nothing of the rite. He thanked the king many times, took the bag of money, and left.
When he reached the inn again and went up the stairs, the door to his room was shut, and through it he heard two voices, Gifu’s and a man’s. Gifu was giggling. Bjarni went to the end of the corridor, where there was a window, and stood looking out over the thatches of the town. Eventually a strange man came out of the room behind him, doing the laces of his shirt.
Seeing Bjarni he stammered some words of French and hurried away to the stairs. Bjarni went into the room.
Gifu sat on the bed. Her skirt was bunched around her hips, and her long legs were bare. One hand rested on her rounding belly. She smiled at Bjarni.
“You slut,” Bjarni said.
She held out her hand. Three pieces of silver lay on her palm. “Someone must keep us.”
“The king keeps
Some of the men behind him gasped. The king caught hold of his hand.
Bjarni laughed. “Tell him he is sinking under the weight of his faith.” He let Red William have the charms again, and the king stuck them away under his shirt. The high color tinged his face.
Bjarni said, “Tell him that he will not die in the straw. That is marked all over him. Who can ask more than that?”
“His grace says you are impudent. He does not understand you. Make yourself plain.”
The king looked angry. With his hand Bjarni saluted him and went out of the room.
THE KING WAS WELL AGAIN the next day. He called Bjarni into the tower and thanked him for destroying the curse.
“I did nothing,” Bjarni said. “The king saved himself.”
The king put a bag of money on the table before him. He said, “There is a ship at Grimsby to take you back to Iceland.”
“Thank you,” Bjarni said, surprised. “You are generous to me.”
The king smiled at him. The Norse priest was translating for them. He said, “His grace says that you have asked nothing of him, and therefore he knows that you are to be trusted. He wishes you to make his name known in your country and to tell your friends and others of the power and the wealth of the King of England. Will you do so?”
That seemed easy enough, and Bjarni agreed to it. They were in the same small room where Bjarni had first spoken to Red William. Two little pages stood by. The king gestured to them, and they brought a beautiful long coat of velvet and lay it on Bjarni’s shoulders, and they put on him a fancy belt and good boots. The king rose in his place. One of the pages brought him a sword.
“Kneel,” said the king.
Bjarni said, “First tell me what this is all about.”
“His grace will knight you and accept you into his service as his man.”
Bjarni began to take off the coat. The king lowered the sword, his face ruddy. Bjarni said, “I am sorry to disappoint him, but I have never knelt down to anybody, except my father.”
The king leaned on the sword. He shouted something at Bjarni, which the priest translated with a smile.
“You will have no ship. You will have to swim back to Iceland.”
Bjarni shrugged. He slung the coat over the table, next to the bag of money.
The king’s blazing blue eyes dimmed. He spoke sharply to a page, who went out. The priest knotted his fingers together. The king sat down again and fixed his gaze on Bjarni. There was a silence.
At last the king spoke. “His grace says that he should have expected this of you. Perhaps to a sorcerer wealth and power are so easy they mean nothing. Take the gifts. Take the ship. The word of such a man as you will have great weight in Iceland; he would rather be spoken of honestly by you than praised by a thousand sycophants.”
Bjarni stood a moment, wondering what to say, and the remaining page brought the coat and helped him put it on again. The page who had gone returned with wine and cups. The king drank from a cup and passed it to Bjarni, who also drank, although he knew nothing of the rite. He thanked the king many times, took the bag of money, and left.
When he reached the inn again and went up the stairs, the door to his room was shut, and through it he heard two voices, Gifu’s and a man’s. Gifu was giggling. Bjarni went to the end of the corridor, where there was a window, and stood looking out over the thatches of the town. Eventually a strange man came out of the room behind him, doing the laces of his shirt.
Seeing Bjarni he stammered some words of French and hurried away to the stairs. Bjarni went into the room.
Gifu sat on the bed. Her skirt was bunched around her hips, and her long legs were bare. One hand rested on her rounding belly. She smiled at Bjarni.
“You slut,” Bjarni said.
She held out her hand. Three pieces of silver lay on her palm. “Someone must keep us.”
“The king keeps
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