The Snow Bear Cub
The Marshall of Navarre's armour was polished steel plate intricately embossed with swirls of deepest emerald. His shield had been enamelled the same green and, entwined with the black crown of thorns was a wreath of holly leaves picked out in lighter green and silver. From his shoulders fell a cloak of green wool.
Beside Don Matteo rode the young duke, Rhowyn, Prince of Rhealmyrr, Hammer Of The North, a Saaal of New Skraaal, and after a recent visit to Petros, an honorary Patriarch of Pellii. It was a lot for a youth whose years numbered only seven and ten. He wore a three-quarter suit of golden chain-mail. His white cloak was the finest lambswool, bordered by a red check, and lined with sunflower yellow silk. More silk, a turban of azure blue, covered his black curls. And slung from his sword-belt was a curved blade of Jal Naghrahar, a gift from his mother Queen Saavi. The sword's hilt had been carved in the likeness of the eight armed elephant god, Rhaju, from solid silver, and set with smooth, elliptically cut sapphires.
On anyone else the combination might have been too much, almost comical, but Rhowyn had the presence and bearing to carry it off. Even if, upon greeting his son, King Robin proclaimed he wouldn't be seen dead in such an outfit!
That's because you have no sense of style, Queen Saavi teased him.
The queen herself dazzled in layered saris of saffron and magenta.
Dismounting inside the bailey, in Navarre it was known as the patio de armas, Matteo and Rhowyn gave their horses to a pair of waiting pageboys. They were the sons of Balon O'Byrne who, given the choice of swearing fealty to Robin or suddenly becoming shorter by a head, had wisely opted for the former.
Robin had no need of hostages. Every male from four and ten to two score years had marched in the uprising. Less than a quarter of those had still been alive after the battle in the wildflower meadow. It would take another hundred years for the clans to be strong enough to cause any more trouble. And Robin planned to marry off the surplus of young widows to men of Greyshale’s fjords long before then. Reinforcing the kingdom's northern borders with friends and allies.
The five year old Princess Marisanne appeared in a tunic of unbleached wool, brown hose, and sensible boots.
This one, said Queen Saavi affectionately, is her father's child. What's wrong with that? Asked Robin. It's just the thing for mucking out stables!
To his daughter he said, That's where you were, right?
Marisanne shook her tumble of ebony curls. I was with Woodie.
Matteo looked at Rhowyn. Woodie?
That would be me, said Aldhyrwoode, stepping out from behind the young princess and embracing both men warmly.
You look ridiculous, he said to Rhowyn.
And you don't look a day over three score and ten.
That's because I'm not... Until the morrow.
Leaving Castellayne three days and a hangover to beat all hangovers later, Rhowyn and Matteo journeyed through The Greenwoode to Delthemyrr, where Sir Roger greeted and feasted them. And where Harald Hard-arse entertained everyone with the ballad of Pegleg Peg.
Pegleg Peg
She were round like a keg
No maiden
But brazen and bold
Rich men or poor
Could knock on the door
Of the whore with a heart of gold
She were takin' a trip
On a whalin' ship
When they say
Peg lost her leg
Bitten off at the knee
By the cap'n's monkey
'N' no pardon did he beg
Pegleg Peg
She were round like a keg
No maiden
But brazen and bold
Pauper or king
All flung their fling
With the whore with a heart of gold
Trouble 'n' strife
I made her me wife
Now summer
Or winter
Her skirts I can fumble
'N' it costs me nowt to tumble
The only lass that ever gave me a splinter
Pegleg Peg
She were round like a keg
No maiden
But brazen and bold
Lads or old goats
Can still sow their oats
With the whore with a heart of gold
Harald was waiting at Delthemyrr to take them to Bjern Bearskinner's langhus on Greyshale. It would be Matteo's first sea voyage. And he wasn't looking forward to it.
What if we sink? He asked Harald.
I haven't lost a ship yet.
But what if we do?
In all that armour? Said Harald. You're fucked.
Should I change?
Into what? A seal? A fish? A raven? I knew a girl who could shape-shift into a raven.
Really?
As real as I'm standing here. I had to clip her wings before she'd let me pluck her.
Pegleg Peg
She were round like a keg
No maiden
But brazen and bold
Acrobatic
'N' athletic
Even with her prosthetic
Was the whore with the heart of gold!
Freya was typical of the raiders' longships. She was forty feet in length and eighteen across the beam. Shallow drafted. Cedar planks nailed to the outside of an oak frame. No cabin or deck, only benches where men and women worked the oars, as many as a score on each side. A single mast for the square cut sail to be hoisted. Her forestays were carved in the likenesses of helmed warriors. And her arched prow was not a dragon's head, but a snarling snow bear.
Cast 'way fore!
Cast 'way aft!
Piss, shit, or puke. All go over the side.
Stand or sit, Harald told Matteo and Rhowyn, but stay the fuck out of the way.
How far is it to Greyshale? Asked Matteo.
How long is a length of rope? If you want to get there quicker, start rowin'.
Harald threw back his head and laughed. Rhowyn rowin'!
The ship has a sail, Matteo pointed out.
Eh? Harald looked surprised. Fuck me! So, it has!
They were in the open water of the harbour entrance by then, The crew at the oars relaxed. It only needed four of them to raise the sail.
The Bearskinner's four daughters all had their father's height, but not one of them had a beard. Statuesque amazons, most of their length was in their legs. Each wore her wheat-husk blonde hair in a thick braid. And if their faces were too angular to be called beautiful, their arctic blue eyes could stop a man's heart.
Rhowyn wondered why they hadn't been able to find husbands.
When he remarked on it to the Bearskinner, Bjern shrugged and shook his head. They're too wild. No man can tame them.
If I'd known how striking they were, said Rhowyn, I would have taken you up on your offer.
The Bearskinner laughed. Any one of them would've eaten you alive! Still... A grandson on the granite throne of Rhealmyrr, eh? Imagine that. It's not too late. Do you think her ladyship would mind?
Rhowyn said he thought the Lady Caitlyn Louisa might. And if she didn't, the noble families of Navarre almost certainly would.
The Bearskinner snorted his derision. A lot of poncing windbags, he said.
A shield-maiden in her youth, Bjern's wife Merethe was as stunning as her daughters. But unlike them, her high cheekbones and solid jaw were oft tempered by a smile that was never far away from her lips, and her candid, sonorous laughter.
According to Harald, Bjern's oldest daughter, Freya, could wrestle a wolverine.
After a night in her bed, Matteo could believe it.
You've given me a child, she said, as she lay with her head on his shoulder, her blunt-nailed fingers stroking his chest.
Eh? Said Matteo. Already?
A boy, she said. I can feel it.