gray, green, and steel-blue. To one side, misty as a dream, lifted mainland hills. The wind whistled up white-caps, roared in boughs and soughed in heather. Gulls rode upon it, mewing. It was cold and tasted of salt, it thrust and slid. It tossed the hair of the maiden who picked her barefoot way over the sand between the sprawled brown strands of kelp.
She was not tall; standing straight, which she did, she would reach halfway up his breast. A drab gown strained across small breasts, slim waist and limbs, suppleness overlaid by an endearing coltishness. Beneath soot and suntan, her skin was fair; freckles dusted a tilted nose. That face was broad and high in the cheekbones, tapering to a strong little chin, mouth wide and soft, lips parted a bit to show good teeth, eyes huge, wide-set, long-lashed under arching brows, the gray-blue of her seas. She had woven herself a garland of yellow dandelion flowers. The locks beneath flowed to her hips. When the fleeting sunshine touched them, they shone as if burnished.
Helgi trod forth. “Why, you’re lovely!” he cried.
She sprang back with a stifled shriek, dropped the wood she had gathered, and ran. He loped alongside her. “Don’t be afraid,” he said. “I’d never harm you. I want to be your friend.”
Grimly, she ran. He put on speed, got ahead of her, barred the way. She snatched a stick, spat like a wildcat and jabbed at him. He liked that grit. Spreading his arms, he gusted forth laughter. “You win,” he said. “I yield me. Do whatever you will.”
She lowered the stick. Her breathing slowed. He could overwhelm her—but he merely stood and smiled. What a big and handsome man he was, too! That frame did notbelong in those foul, flapping tatters. His face went with the body, craggy-nosed, eyes heaven-blue, flaxen mane to the shoulders and beard closely cropped. Scars lay white among the golden hairs on his arms.
“What’s your name, lady,” he asked with an outlander lilt, “and of what folk do you hail?”
She pointed to the smoke. “I’m yonder crofter’s daughter,” she whispered through wind and surf. “Well, no, really, I … my mother was a thrall. I hight Yrsa.”
He stepped to her. She stood as if under a spell, hearing her heart knock. He took both her hands in his, which were hard and warm. Gazing for a long time, he said thoughtfully: “You do not have the eyes of a thrall.”
They sat down, backs to the blast, and talked. She had never imagined a stranger would care about the day-to-day life which was hers. “Who are you?” she kept asking. He would put her off: “Tell me more of yourself, Yrsa.”
“There’s something hidden about you,” he said. “How old are you?”
“Why, I … I never counted,” she answered, astonished.
“Think.” He took her fingers. “This year; last year—” After a good deal of finger-play, she was flushed and half dizzy, and guessed maybe she had thirteen or fourteen winters.
“I was that age when—Well, no matter,” he said. “We both come of fast-growing stock.”
They shared cheese and hardtack from his wallet. Later, when he laid an arm about her waist, she did not shrink, but sighed and leaned her head on his breast.
A gull wheeled low, milk-white in a shaft of sunlight.
“I’m head over heels with you,” said Helgi. “I am.”
“Oh, now,” breathed Yrsa.
He must grin. “You being a crofter’s daughter,” he said, “it’s fitting that a poor beggar should get you.”
She jumped from him in horror.’ What? No, no, no!”
He rose to loom above her. “Yes, oh, yes.” Taking a careful, unbreakable hold: “Come away with me, Yrsa. You must. A Norn stood here today.”
She started to weep and plead. He stood a while, in noise and chill and hasty shadows, before he said: “I could bear you off against your will. But your tears would hurt me too much. That’s a word few women have ever had from me. I ask you, then, if you’ll freely be mine.”
She looked at him,
She was not tall; standing straight, which she did, she would reach halfway up his breast. A drab gown strained across small breasts, slim waist and limbs, suppleness overlaid by an endearing coltishness. Beneath soot and suntan, her skin was fair; freckles dusted a tilted nose. That face was broad and high in the cheekbones, tapering to a strong little chin, mouth wide and soft, lips parted a bit to show good teeth, eyes huge, wide-set, long-lashed under arching brows, the gray-blue of her seas. She had woven herself a garland of yellow dandelion flowers. The locks beneath flowed to her hips. When the fleeting sunshine touched them, they shone as if burnished.
Helgi trod forth. “Why, you’re lovely!” he cried.
She sprang back with a stifled shriek, dropped the wood she had gathered, and ran. He loped alongside her. “Don’t be afraid,” he said. “I’d never harm you. I want to be your friend.”
Grimly, she ran. He put on speed, got ahead of her, barred the way. She snatched a stick, spat like a wildcat and jabbed at him. He liked that grit. Spreading his arms, he gusted forth laughter. “You win,” he said. “I yield me. Do whatever you will.”
She lowered the stick. Her breathing slowed. He could overwhelm her—but he merely stood and smiled. What a big and handsome man he was, too! That frame did notbelong in those foul, flapping tatters. His face went with the body, craggy-nosed, eyes heaven-blue, flaxen mane to the shoulders and beard closely cropped. Scars lay white among the golden hairs on his arms.
“What’s your name, lady,” he asked with an outlander lilt, “and of what folk do you hail?”
She pointed to the smoke. “I’m yonder crofter’s daughter,” she whispered through wind and surf. “Well, no, really, I … my mother was a thrall. I hight Yrsa.”
He stepped to her. She stood as if under a spell, hearing her heart knock. He took both her hands in his, which were hard and warm. Gazing for a long time, he said thoughtfully: “You do not have the eyes of a thrall.”
They sat down, backs to the blast, and talked. She had never imagined a stranger would care about the day-to-day life which was hers. “Who are you?” she kept asking. He would put her off: “Tell me more of yourself, Yrsa.”
“There’s something hidden about you,” he said. “How old are you?”
“Why, I … I never counted,” she answered, astonished.
“Think.” He took her fingers. “This year; last year—” After a good deal of finger-play, she was flushed and half dizzy, and guessed maybe she had thirteen or fourteen winters.
“I was that age when—Well, no matter,” he said. “We both come of fast-growing stock.”
They shared cheese and hardtack from his wallet. Later, when he laid an arm about her waist, she did not shrink, but sighed and leaned her head on his breast.
A gull wheeled low, milk-white in a shaft of sunlight.
“I’m head over heels with you,” said Helgi. “I am.”
“Oh, now,” breathed Yrsa.
He must grin. “You being a crofter’s daughter,” he said, “it’s fitting that a poor beggar should get you.”
She jumped from him in horror.’ What? No, no, no!”
He rose to loom above her. “Yes, oh, yes.” Taking a careful, unbreakable hold: “Come away with me, Yrsa. You must. A Norn stood here today.”
She started to weep and plead. He stood a while, in noise and chill and hasty shadows, before he said: “I could bear you off against your will. But your tears would hurt me too much. That’s a word few women have ever had from me. I ask you, then, if you’ll freely be mine.”
She looked at him,
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