I stayed that night in the barn with Gunnar's ox and cows. He did not bother to chain or restrain me in any way, and I soon learned why. As the moon rose in the tall pines, the wolves began to howl. Sure, I had heard wolves before, but never so many or so close. From the sound of their mournful wailing, I reckoned they must be swarming on the very edges of the forest. The barn was secure enough-a very fortress, for Gunnar had no wish to lose his valuable animals; but the howling kept me awake long into the night, and I fell asleep with the sound in my ears.
In the morning, the maid Ylva came to rouse me and bring me to the kitchen. The Danefolk build their dwellings in such a way as to make the kitchen part of the house itself, and no small part, either. Indeed, Gunnar's house was a fair likeness of Ragnar's hall, save that he had made a sleeping loft among the rooftrees above the table. This loft was reached by a ladder and overlooked the hearth below. Adjacent to the hearth was a nook where the ale and water tubs were kept, and a low door leading to a small storeroom. At the end of the hall, there was a place where animals could be kept in bad weather; this was strewn with straw and had a manger for feeding them.
I broke fast with the family, and began what was to become our custom: Gunnar and his son sitting on the bench at the hearth-end of the board, and myself at the stable-end perched on a three-legged stool with a wooden bowl balanced on my knee, while Karin and Ylva fluttered from hearth to board, cooing over the preparations. The Danefolk, I learned, liked their meals unbearably hot, and began almost every meal with a thick barley gruel which they slurped down from big wooden bowls, sometimes with wooden spoons, but most often without.
When the gruel had been eaten and the bowls collected, then bread, meat, and pale white cheese was served. If fruit was in season, that was offered, too; Gunnar especially loved the bitter blue currants, and a puckery little red berry they called lingon, which Karin prepared in a boiled compote Gunnar poured on his bread. This sauce was so tart I could never get it down without honey.
There was sometimes fish-fresh when they could get it, though usually salted or preserved in a solution of brine and vinegar, or lye. The lyefish, or lutfisk, stank to heaven with a stench to bring tears to the eye. They ate this abomination boiled in milk, and professed to like it; but the stink alone made the gorge rise in my throat and I could in no way abide it.
If there was no fish, then sausages were served-boiled or roasted, it made no difference. Occasionally, there was a kind of meat which was prepared by soaking whole pork haunches in brine for several months and then hanging them in the rooftrees over the hearth so that the smoke would preserve them. This treatment made the meat turn bright red, like raw beef, but the taste was magnificent-sweet and succulent and salty all at once. I always enjoyed the rokt skinka, and ate as much of it as often as I could.
The Danefolk liked their meat; they liked their bread, too-heavy and dark, served warm from hearth or oven. I soon grew to enjoy this strange custom. Karin's ale was the same as her bread: dark, rich, and filling, and with a sweet taste that reminded me of nuts. Once Karin put spruce berries in the brew, to produce a most unusual beer. I could not drink it, but Gunnar thought it a wonderful diversion from his normal drink. Sadly, they disdained wine-which, after all, was difficult for them to procure-but I made up for that lack by acquiring a taste for Karin's dark brown ale.
I ate, as I say, with the family. To his honour, Gunnar never stinted in his care of me where food was concerned, nor was I given inferior fare: I ate the same food as my master, and in similar portions. And it shames me even now to say that I indulged myself sinfully, utterly without regard to the Rule of Moderation. How often I asked for more!
I still see Karin's broad, kindly face glowing with pleasure-and the heat of the hearth-as she laid the food on the board, her hands red from work, but her braids neat and her clothing spotless as her kitchen. She was a meticulous, hard-working woman, and enjoyed nothing more than to have the fruit of her labour admired and made much over. Sure, this was no hardship at all for any fortunate enough to find a seat at her table; her offerings, while simple, were never less than superb.
There were two, however, not so fortunate in this respect-though in others perhaps they were far more so than I. These were Odd, the labourer, and Helmuth, the swineherd. Both were Saex-men, and both slaves. Odd was a large fellow, patient, tireless, and very nearly mute. Helmuth, a man of mature years, was a well-mannered and even-tempered soul, who, despite all appearances, happily possessed a smattering of learning, as I soon discovered.
