The Half-Drowned King, page 10
Svanhild looked around. Vigdis was nowhere near. Svanhild should not do this—she would be talked over if anyone saw, and they would. But if this young man liked her, he could ask for her, and if he had wealth beyond his fine weapon, Ragnvald might arrange it for her. She stepped up onto a rock and then, taking the man’s hand, climbed up in front of him on his horse. He held her familiarly around the waist, a firm grip that made her stomach jump.
“What shall I call you until I guess your name?” Svanhild asked.
“What do you want to call me?”
“You have red hair like a flame. I shall call you Loki. And perhaps when you feel insulted enough, you will tell me your name.” She threw him a smile over her shoulder.
“You could never insult me, Svanhild,” he said. She liked the way he said her name, as though it were a secret between the two of them. He jerked his chin at his friends, who obeyed his signal to depart and rode across the field away from them.
“Have you been up to the glacier?” he asked, pointing at the wall of ice above.
Svanhild shook her head. At night deep groans came from it, like the sounds of giants shifting in their sleep. She must have shown her fear somehow in her body, for he pulled her closer and said in her ear, “Do not be scared. I will keep you from falling.”
She clung to the horse’s mane as it picked its way up the rock-strewn slope above the camp. Svanhild looked straight ahead of her so she would not have to see the height they had climbed.
“Your horse is sure-footed,” she said. “Do you plan to fight him?”
“Her,” said the man, leaning forward as they ascended. His chest pressed warm against her back. “And what does a maiden know of horse fighting?”
“Only what I’ve heard,” said Svanhild, now worried that she had steered the conversation where a woman should not.
“Then I’ve some advice you might not have learned: never fight your own horse, only bet on others’.” He laughed, and she smiled, though he could not see it. “Anyhow, this mare is too sensible to fight. It is only the stallions that can be provoked.”
“Horses are not so unlike people, then,” she said, though she herself often wanted to fight. When they reached the summit, he climbed down first and helped her down. In the short time it had taken to reach this place, clouds had come in to cover the sky. A wind started to blow, carrying the cool breath of the ice cave toward them. Svanhild regretted not bringing her coat.
“You are short,” she said when he stood next to her. He was still so handsome, and with a knowing quirk in his smile, so that she could only dart glances at his face, now level with hers, before looking away, blushing. “And wealthy enough to have a good horse, and a gold clasp for your cloak. Your armor is much scuffed, though, so I think if you are a king, it is of a very small place.” She smiled at him on that last, and found an answering smile from him.
“Perhaps this armor has saved me many times, and I would not part with it for prettier,” he said.
She had to look away from him again, and looked instead into the ice cave. The blue was brighter than the clearest jewel.
“Tell me more so I can guess,” she said.
“Tell me of yourself, fair Svanhild. All I know of you is your name.”
How little there was to tell. “My father was a boaster, my grandfather was a king.” It sounded to her like it could be a rhyme. “My stepfather wants to kill my brother, and he may yet do it.” Her throat grew tight, and she stopped speaking. The cool air from the cave made her face feel all the hotter. She tried to remember some of what Vigdis had taught her of how to catch a man’s attention. It was not with tears; she could remember that much.
“He wants to kill your brother?” the man asked. “How do you know?”
“He sent my brother Ragnvald out raiding to be killed by Solvi Klofe, who tried to do it, but Ragnvald survived.”
“He survived,” said the man slowly. Svanhild turned to look at him. “That is good,” he added, “but I did not ask about your family. I asked about you.”
“I am a girl raised on a farm,” she said. What else could she tell him: that she spun poorly, that she hit her stepbrother with his own sword? “I think my brother should sail away across the sea and take me with him. I have only ever seen these same mountains.”
“Where do you want to go?”
“Anywhere—everywhere.” She had thought of this often. Ragnvald was supposed to find her a warrior to marry, one who might go raiding to Scotland or beyond, and bring her with him for the long winter sieges. Or settle in Iceland or the Orkney Islands, as she had tried to urge him. “Why should he be the one to decide? Why should he be the one who gets to go?”
“I could take you there,” he said. He stood close behind her, looking into the cave with her. He did smell more of sea than of earth.
“Should I have called you after a sea god rather than a trickster? No, I think you are still Loki, full of fire and guile.” She had said it to be flirtatious, but she could see, or sense from the way he shifted, that her words made him uncomfortable.
“Come,” he said. “We can walk a little ways into the mouth.” She looked up at the blue maw of the glacier, into the recesses where it turned to blackness. Svanhild would have hesitated to go in with someone she trusted as much as Ragnvald, and told herself she would not plumb those depths with this man, whose name she did not know.
He extended his hand. “Do not fear me,” he said. He looked away from her almost shyly when she took it. She should not have come even this far with him, and now that she had, she would not be a coward. On the sacred ting grounds he would never do her harm, even if he had it in him, and that last look had done more to earn her trust than any words he could speak.
Someone had been here before, tramping a dark, rough path into the ice that was easy enough to walk on. They could not remain holding hands, so he placed her hand on his shoulder and led the way, past wet blue walls, until the gray sky only showed a small glimpse behind them. Here a narrow stream of water cascaded into a pool far below, passing every shade of blue from white to midnight before plummeting into darkness.
“Is this another world?” she whispered.
“It might be. See, I have already taken you somewhere else,” he whispered back.
“Yes,” she said.
“Do you not think you would fear the long sea crossings? The wind would tangle your hair.” He touched her hair where it lay over her arm. She shivered, more from the sensation than cold. He took the excuse, though, and draped a part of his cloak over her shoulder.
“The wind tangles my hair in Ardal as well,” she said, “and I see nothing but cows and sheep.” The longing hurt her chest even as hope made her heart beat faster. If it were as easy as this, to find a husband who would take her away—she would have to leave Ragnvald, but she would have to leave him anyway, one day. He wanted Ardal, to follow the duty of generations before. He never wanted to leave.
“I would take you with me,” he said, with a fierceness that surprised her. “I have ships, men, wealth. I am not a king, but my father is.”
She thought for a wild moment that she would, she would do it, even if she had to be his concubine. She would leap with him, if he could make her feel like this even sometimes.
“A king’s son,” she said. She looked at him again. There was something familiar about him: this short king’s son with the red hair and beard. “You are quite short.” She stepped away from him. “You are Solvi Klofe, Solvi the Short, Solvi who tried to murder my brother.” She backed away, her voice rising. The expression on his face told her she had guessed right. “And now you take more revenge on me? Or make me look foolish?” No, that had been her doing. “Take me back to my tent.”
He looked stricken and reached for her. “I would never hurt you.”
“You would never?” She pulled away in horror. “You already tried to hurt me worse than anything you could do to my body. Ragnvald is my brother. I hope he kills you.”
“I did not want to—” He seemed to cut himself off. “I am glad he is alive. I promise—,” he began again, spreading his hands.
“Don’t promise anything,” she cried. “Your promises are worthless.”
“No man could say such a thing to me and live,” he said, his voice suddenly hard. “You know who I am now, so stop this foolishness.”
“A man will say that to you, at the trials.”
“Are you a seer, then?” he asked, stalking toward her, no longer trying to placate her. His changeability frightened her—this man could turn from playful to deadly in an instant. No wonder Ragnvald had not seen his betrayal coming.
She backed away farther, trying to stay on the path through the ice without taking her eyes off him.
She took a false step, though, and slipped, so he had to lunge and catch her. She crouched for a moment before standing again, blinking away her tears. Her ankle hurt, although she did not think she had damaged herself too badly. She turned away from him and began climbing back to the daylight world.
“Let me take you back,” he said when they reached the edge of the cave. His horse was still beneath the trees, nibbling at spring buds.
“If Ragnvald sees you with me, he will kill you,” said Svanhild.
“He will not,” said Solvi. “He would not bring a blood feud down upon his family.” He looked rueful, and Svanhild read something there: Solvi’s true strength was to do what others would not. He would not fear a blood feud. He would sow discord and go off laughing. Svanhild banished the thought—she did not want to see anything to admire in Solvi. She already enjoyed his looks too much. “My men would kill him before he could do it,” he added.
“You tried.” Svanhild’s voice rose to a shriek. “Maybe he can’t be killed by you.”
He smiled then, for no reason she could see. “You don’t want me dead, fair Svanhild.”
“I know my own mind,” she said.
“I do not want you to hate me.”
Svanhild did not know how to respond to that. “Take me back, then,” she said haughtily. Her ankle throbbed.
He helped her mount in front of him again. As they picked their way down the slope, she tried not to slide over the horse’s neck, but also to keep a gap between herself and Solvi. How embarrassing that she had let him press himself against her.
She held her head high as they rode back to Olaf’s camp. Olaf and Vigdis stood there watching her. “I would speak with you,” said Olaf coldly, and it took Svanhild a moment to realize that he was talking to Solvi, not her.
Solvi ignored him, swinging off his horse and down to the ground before extending a hand to help Svanhild. She accepted his hand without thinking, and he gave her another of his grins, which grew broader when she scowled at him. He must think that the ride back had somehow reconciled her to him. Well, he would not find her favor won that easily.
“We had an agreement, Solvi Hunthiofsson,” said Olaf.
“Is this the place you’d like to discuss our agreement?” Solvi asked, looking around. Members of Olaf’s household had gathered, as well as others who had come to greet Solvi.
“No,” said Olaf between gritted teeth. “Come into my tent and drink with me.” He looked at Svanhild, then back to Solvi again. “My daughter will wait on you.”
“She was sure to tell me she was not your daughter,” said Solvi. His eyes lingered on Svanhild for a moment, and try as she might, she could not look away, or cast her eyes down. “But yes, have her wait on us, and I will accept your hospitality.”
Svanhild stared at the two of them: Olaf, tall and stony; and Solvi, smaller, but still holding the reins of power here, by force of personality and blood. The arrogance of kings, the strength of a warrior—even a very short warrior—in his prime.
Vigdis beckoned to her, drawing Svanhild to the kitchen area, where she produced two pewter cups and a cask of ale. “Listen, but do not speak,” she said in an urgent whisper. On the ground behind her, little Hallbjorn patted his hands on the dirt. “You have done well. This Solvi is smitten with you, I can see it. If you would not marry Thorkell, make Solvi love you more.”
“Solvi tried to kill—”
“I said listen,” said Vigdis. “Grudges are for men to hold. Think what you could do for your brother as Solvi’s bride. And bring them ale. Let your hair fall on Solvi’s shoulder. Do not be over bold, but stay close when you serve him and”—she paused and smiled—“go. You have already done well. You don’t need my advice.”
Svanhild felt like a block of wood as she took the few steps toward Olaf’s tent. She had no intention of flirting with Solvi any further. Her face flamed as she thought of how much of that she had already done. And if Solvi asked for her—she shuddered at the thought—Ragnvald would never forgive her if she consented.
“Your agreement was with my father, not me,” Solvi was saying when Svanhild entered with the ale. He sounded disdainful, and Olaf’s face looked like a thundercloud, which made her want to cower. Olaf’s rages ruled Ardal. Solvi looked unconcerned.
“It was your error that brought us here,” said Olaf, ignoring the ale Svanhild set in front of him. “If you’d done what you were supposed to, that upstart wouldn’t be bringing suit against us.”
Svanhild’s hand shook when she put Solvi’s cup down in front of him. He caught it before it spilled, his hand over hers, which she plucked away as if his touch burned her. He raised his brows, mischief in his eyes, then turned to Olaf again.
“As I said, your agreement was with my father, not me. Ragnvald was a good warrior, but if he brings suit, he has nothing but words. No one will bring swords to defend him. No one will stand witness for him. And when he’s done, he will have falsely accused a king’s son.”
“He is still alive,” said Olaf.
Did Olaf really not care that Svanhild could hear this? Did he think her as much a coward as he was? Or did he imagine that his rages would keep her from telling Ragnvald what she had heard? She stayed still, holding the cask of ale in case they should call for more, but neither had drunk more than a sip.
“That is as I meant it,” said Solvi, looking up at her.
“You cannot be that stupid,” said Svanhild, “or think I am.”
“Say the gods stayed my hand, then,” he said, still to her. She could believe that, though it changed nothing.
“Did they?” Olaf asked, looking concerned. “How am I supposed to govern Ardal with that troublemaker still around?”
“That is not my concern. I have no interest in your little farm’s business,” Solvi said scornfully. Then he glanced at Svanhild. “Except this—give me this swan girl as a concubine, and I’ll lend you men to defend your land. I’ve heard you need it.”
Svanhild gasped. This must be why Olaf had allowed her to hear him. He might do it, even with the insult of Solvi asking for her as a concubine—warriors would make Olaf an important man again, more so than his cousin Thorkell. “I would never,” she cried. “I’ve heard what you said. I’ll—I’ll tell Ragnvald. I’ll testify against you.”
Solvi laughed. “A girl’s testimony? And what would that be worth?” he asked her, and then, not expecting an answer, got to his feet and said to Olaf, “She’s a wild one. My offer stands. Send the girl to me if you agree.”
“Never,” said Svanhild.
As soon as he left, Olaf grabbed her arm in a bruising grip. “You worthless girl,” he said, shoving her forward. “I ought to beat you black and blue.”
“You wouldn’t want to damage me before you sell me to someone,” she said, shakily.
“If you testify against me, I’ll make you worthless even as a concubine. No man will want to look at you when I’m done.” He dragged her from the tent and brought her to Vigdis in the kitchen tent. Vigdis looked mildly shocked to see them like that, Svanhild kicking, Olaf holding her up by the arm.
“Keep her tied up,” he said to Vigdis. “I don’t want anyone but you to see her until after the trials are done.” He flung Svanhild against a sack of grain, knocking the wind out of her. Her scream was muffled by the sacks as Olaf turned her over and Vigdis tied her hands behind her back. Olaf yanked her wimple forward and tied it around her mouth so she couldn’t cry out again. He turned her over onto her back again. “Don’t try anything,” he warned. “Things can go much worse for you.”
The child Hallbjorn watched this with big, round eyes and then began to cry. Vigdis scooped him up and held him on her hip, bouncing him until he stopped, though he still watched Svanhild warily.
“She’ll be a chore to take care of,” said Vigdis to Olaf before he left.
“I’ll give you a new brooch,” said Olaf. Vigdis nodded. Olaf left, and Vigdis knelt next to her.
“You are a foolish child,” said Vigdis, almost kindly. “You’ve angered all of the men who would help you.” Svanhild glared at her. “Ragnvald—I suppose he would, but he can’t, can he? And he will hear of your ride with Solvi, and wonder if he has any friends left in the world.”
With that she carried Hallbjorn outside and bid Sigurd watch him for the afternoon. When she returned, Svanhild kicked and cursed at her from behind the gag until she grew too exhausted to move.
She slept, and when she woke, Vigdis was gone. She fingered the knots behind her back. She could not gain purchase on them, and could barely move her wrists. She struggled a bit more, then flopped against the grain sacks, saving her strength. Everyone would be gone during tonight’s feasting; perhaps she could make her escape then.
9
The morning after the sacrifices, word spread around the camp that Solvi had come. Ragnvald’s nerves were stretched thin during his archery contest with Egil. On the sidelines, Solvi laid bets and talked loudly. Ragnvald could think of little but his upcoming trial, and his arrows hit the ground more often than they struck the target.
At least his anger at Solvi’s presence spurred him to win a footrace later in the afternoon. Ragnvald looked to see if Solvi had noticed this triumph, so similar to the race on the oars, but he was lost in the crowd of taller men.
