The Half-Drowned King, page 14
One more lunge would do it, though. He probably had that in him. Ragnvald took a few more crabwise steps. He put a tie line between himself and Olaf, then made a feint forward, hoping to invite Olaf’s attack, while keeping half an eye on Sigurd. Olaf did take the step toward him, but not far enough to come inside Ragnvald’s guard. Ragnvald moved sideways again.
“Now who’s the coward?” Olaf hissed. “Come and fight.”
Ragnvald tried not to react to Olaf’s words. Anger would avail him little now. Another step, and Olaf would find himself tangled in the tie lines if he attacked in any other way than a straight thrust. Ragnvald stepped over the rope and swung his sword with both hands. A half second faster, and it would have taken off Olaf’s head, but Olaf threw himself to the ground and only lost a patch of scalp, while Ragnvald lost his balance from the too forceful swing.
Olaf stabbed upward, through Ragnvald’s thigh. Ragnvald shouted. Blood wet his trews. His grip on his sword was failing. He let go of it and reached for his dagger with his left hand. If Olaf killed him, at least they could die together.
On the ground, Olaf scrambled backward, out of the way. Ragnvald took another step back and stumbled against the tent. His vision was a black tunnel now that contained only Olaf, trying to stand, and a pair of embroidered shoes on the ground next to him. He looked up to see Oddi.
“Enough of this,” said Oddi, sounding just like his father. “The duel is not until tomorrow.”
“They came to murder me,” said Ragnvald, sagging back against the tree. Other men of Hakon’s court gathered around them.
“This man is wounded,” said Oddi to his fellows. “Someone see to him.”
A young man rushed forward and bid Ragnvald sit. He tore bandages from Ragnvald’s shirt and tied them around Ragnvald’s wounds, over his clothes. The pressure made Ragnvald cry out, as his vision narrowed further.
“They came to murder me,” Ragnvald repeated thickly. The pain crested and then receded, a tide moving with his blood. He could manage the worst of it now, he thought.
“That much is clear,” said King Hakon. Ragnvald looked up at him stupidly. When had King Hakon arrived?
“I only wanted redress for today’s insult,” said Olaf. “This—boy has insulted me, and stolen my daughter—”
“Stepdaughter,” said Sigurd, under his breath. Olaf gave him a dirty look.
“We planned to duel tomorrow,” said Ragnvald. “Did you fear me so much?”
Olaf pulled himself to his feet. He was still breathing hard. “He does not deserve the honor of a duel.”
“You have attempted murder,” said Hakon, implacable.
“It was not murder—it was my right,” said Olaf. “Solvi Hunthiofsson will speak for me.”
“I cannot think what he could say to change what I have seen,” said King Hakon, “but someone fetch him anyway.”
It seemed like little time passed between Hakon speaking the words and one of his men reappearing with Solvi in tow, but it must have taken several minutes. Ragnvald was very thirsty.
“Why did you call on me?” Solvi asked Olaf, before anyone could question him. “I want nothing more to do with you.”
“I was only finishing what you started,” said Olaf. “What you could not do.”
“You will not put this on me.”
Dimly, Ragnvald was aware of someone slapping his face. His bandages were tightened, sending more pain blooming up from his thigh through his groin. “You may duel with Olaf tomorrow,” said Hakon to him. Hakon’s face was right in front of him. Was Ragnvald standing, or was Hakon sitting? Ragnvald could not tell.
“He is not well enough to duel,” said Oddi. “I will stand for him. I will gladly kill Olaf for him.”
“No,” said Ragnvald. No, he could not let Oddi do that. Ragnvald was not aware of much at this moment, but he clung to this. Olaf was his. “No,” he said again. “I may die of my wounds. Olaf is a coward, but he holds my lands for me now. I will kill him, if I recover. And if I do not, may the gods deal with him as he has with me.”
Hakon’s face retreated away from him. “Ragnvald Eysteinsson has spoken,” he said, “and I judge it good. He may have his own revenge.” To Olaf he said, “I declare you outlawed from my lands. Any man may kill you on sight and come to me for reward.”
Olaf paled, and squared his shoulders. “You are not my king,” he said, showing the first bravery he had since coming to the assembly.
“And young Ragnvald wants you to live so he can kill you himself. Go back to Ardal, tonight, or I will let my sons make what sport of you they will.”
He might have said something else, but Ragnvald slumped forward. He breathed in the dust of last year’s leaves, and then he knew no more.
12
When Ragnvald woke up, he felt drunk. His mouth tasted of spirits, and his arm, side, and thigh ached and burned by turns. He sat up, his head spinning. He was in a well-decorated tent, on a raised bed, with Svanhild sitting by his side.
“Ragnvald,” she said, sounding relieved. “I’ll go get someone.”
Ragnvald lay back down again, but it did not stop the tent walls from shifting around him, as though he were rolling down a steep slope. He wanted to throw up.
Oddi and King Hakon appeared next. Ragnvald sat up again—he would not lie down when a king was talking to him. “I know you feel terrible now,” said Hakon, “but my healer says you are very lucky. Your wounds are in muscle only. You will heal quickly.”
“Thank you,” said Ragnvald, his voice scratchy as though he had not used it in some time.
“Olaf and his household have gone as my father ordered,” said Oddi. “A few other families left as well—I think some of his kin?”
“Thank you,” said Ragnvald again. He did not know what else to say.
“I knew your father and grandfather,” said Hakon. “Your grandfather Ivar was a mighty king in Sogn. His brother was the most feared sea king of the northern coast. Do you know that fishermen still look for his treasure caches in the barrier islands?”
“Yes, my lord,” said Ragnvald. He had learned the tales, been proud of them, to come from a line of kings who protected their people and their lands, and to be descended from fierce raiders as well, who conquered wave and rock so that they were called sea kings, kings with no land, only plunder.
“Eystein Glumra, we called your father,” Hakon was saying. “Eystein the Noisy. All bluster and boasting, no action.”
Ragnvald felt distantly angry, but the pain in his body was more immediate. And there was no use for this anger; Hakon spoke the truth.
“But you are not like that, are you?” Hakon looked at Ragnvald curiously, as though he actually wanted to hear Ragnvald’s answer.
“I hope not,” said Ragnvald. He wished Hakon would get to the point and let him rest.
“You are a rare one, to let Olaf live,” said Hakon. “You would rather kill him yourself than have his land pass easily to you.”
Distantly, Ragnvald remembered that Oddi had offered to kill Olaf for him, and Ragnvald had declined. At the time, he had not wanted anyone else to take his revenge.
Hakon looked at Ragnvald, stroking his beard. It was thick and long enough that Ragnvald wondered if Hakon counted his personal fighting days over. A sprinkling of gray hairs dulled the golden strands, and the skin around his eyes was heavy. Jarl Runolf had been Hakon’s friend, Ragnvald remembered. Hakon would wish to mourn for him but could not, not when his own son was the killer.
“What will you do now?” Hakon asked.
“I am wounded,” said Ragnvald. It was as well that Olaf lived. He did not regret that decision, though he had hardly been conscious when he made it. Let Olaf hold Ardal until Ragnvald knew if he would live or die, if he would heal maimed or whole. He owed it to the land of his forefathers. No one would acclaim him jarl or king if he could not fight. He would rather die unknown than let his name live on like his father’s.
“You will be well enough soon,” said Hakon, cutting through Ragnvald’s self-pity. “There are those who would take you for your strong back and stout sword when you are recovered.”
Yes, men like Solvi or worse, raiders who would demand a tithe in blood, terrible oaths and rituals to give him a place on a ship when he did not have silver to buy a spot. Ragnvald had seen the scars, the marks of brotherhood that bound some of Solvi’s warriors to him. Ragnvald had enough respect for Solvi himself, mixed with an equal helping of fear, but did not want to become one of his sworn men. They renounced their ties to land and family, and had no children besides those they got on thralls and unwilling captives, children who would never know their father’s names, unless their mothers named them in hate.
Hakon must have read that in Ragnvald’s face, for he laid a hand on Ragnvald’s shoulder and said, “Not that, not the sea brethren. I offer a place in one of my ships.”
A glimmer of hope flared up, even through Ragnvald’s haziness. “My sister Svanhild,” he said, glancing at where she sat by his side. “I cannot send her back to Olaf.”
“Who has her keeping now?” Hakon asked.
“She has been staying with Hrolf Nefia and his family,” said Ragnvald.
“The father of your betrothed,” said Hakon. “Yes, that is a good place for her. I will speak to him and make sure he treats her well.”
“I want to go with you,” said Svanhild, jumping to her feet. “I could care for you until you’re well.”
“That is generous,” said Hakon, “but my whole household is on the move, now. There would be no place for you.”
“Take me on your ships,” said Svanhild. “I could cook and mend sails.”
Hakon laughed. “She has a good spirit,” he said. “If young Ragnvald fails,” he said to Svanhild, “will you avenge yourself on Olaf?”
“Of course.”
“I will speak to Hrolf Nefia myself. You will not lack for comforts, my dear.”
“Thank you,” said Ragnvald, and Svanhild echoed him.
“Should I ask Hakon to set a guard on you so Solvi doesn’t carry you off?” Ragnvald asked Svanhild, after King Hakon left.
“I don’t think he will.” She looked faraway for a moment.
“What do you think people will say of that?” he asked. The farmers who had spoken of Solvi’s ride had surely been laughing at him as they hid the woman’s name.
She stood swiftly. “Little enough, I think, when you have given them so much else to speak of. If your leg pains you so much that you must be cruel to one who has done nothing but stand by you, I will send for the healer.”
That seemed unjust. If he were maimed, he would be at the mercy of women for the rest of his life, like this. Better to die.
“I had thought to send Hilda to comfort you, but not now,” Svanhild added, not above using her power over him at this moment.
“Why did you ride with him?” Ragnvald asked, reaching over to pat the seat. He would not apologize, but he could, he supposed, be kinder, or she would leave him alone, and soon they would be separated for many months again.
“I did not know who he was,” she said, looking away. “And I wanted some other prospect besides Thorkell.”
“I will find someone better for you, I promise. What of Oddi? You could do worse than a king’s son.”
Svanhild made a face. “He looks like a frog. A handsome frog, though.” Her look turned pensive. “Find me someone, though. I do not think I will be welcome with Hrolf for long.”
* * *
The next time Svanhild came, she brought Hilda with her and left them alone together, giving Ragnvald a conspiratorial look on leaving. Hilda wore light festival fabrics—her best dress, Ragnvald judged, in a bright blue that made her hair look like fine, polished wood.
“I’m glad you are well,” she said. “I brought a tafl board so we can play.” She unrolled it on the small folding table next to his mattress. Ragnvald wedged himself more upright, sending a bright splash of pain through his leg. She set up the pieces, the king and his defenders in the middle, the raiders on the outside. “Which position do you want?”
The raiders had the easier role—they had only to surround the king with four pieces anywhere on the board—while the king had to escape them to the corner squares.
“The king,” he said. “Since Hakon has given me a place here.”
“Making me the raiders,” she said, smiling shyly at him. “That hardly seems apt.”
The game played out predictably. Hilda was not a very skilled player, and did not know the tricks that Olaf had taught Ragnvald for winning on the king’s side. A few moments occurred when she had an advantage she did not know enough to turn into a win. Then Ragnvald reached the corner of the board and finished the game.
“We can play knucklebones when you’re feeling better,” she said. It was not a very athletic game, but he did not want to have to move quickly right now.
“Hilda, your promise to me—if I am maimed . . .” Hakon’s healer had good to say of Ragnvald’s wound when she came to check on it, but without testing it, Ragnvald could not be sure.
“You will heal whole,” she said. “Everyone thinks you will.”
“Svanhild thinks that everything will always come out as she wills it.”
“I think she is right this time. Or are you trying to escape your promise again?” Hilda asked, with a smile that did not fully hide her hurt.
“Never,” said Ragnvald. “I keep my promises, and this is one is no hardship to keep. When I take back Ardal, you will be its mistress.” She looked pleased at that, so he continued. “And my grandfather was king of Sogn. I mean to take that back, and you will be queen.”
Her smile disappeared. “I wouldn’t know how to be queen.”
She showed proper modesty with those words, the modesty often praised in proverbs. Yet the women of Svanhild’s favorite tales rarely displayed that virtue. He could not picture Hilda as the princess Unna, whose husband lay long abed one winter when he should be avenging an insult to their family. She had threatened and berated him until his blood was up and he did his killing. He died on the sword of his enemy’s son, yet that did not make Svanhild like Unna any less.
“It will be a long time from now,” said Ragnvald. First he must get up from this bed for more than just pissing in a pot. “Let us play another game. You could have beaten me last time. I’ll show you.”
* * *
A week after Ragnvald’s trial, Hrolf’s camp began packing up. Svanhild had not felt welcome there, and spent as much time as she could with Ragnvald. She and Hilda tried not to let him grow too bored, trading off visits, playing rounds of tafl with him, sending Oddi to amuse him when that paled. His wounds healed swiftly with the attention of Hakon’s women, who knew more of healing craft than Svanhild did. By the end of the week, he could walk without support.
On the day of their leavetaking, Ragnvald walked Svanhild over to Hrolf Nefia’s camp and left her there with her bundle of clothes gifted by Hakon’s women. She had left a few things behind at Ardal—her favorite spindle, which no one else liked to use, and some of her well-worn underthings—but she had worn all her jewelry here, and she comforted herself with the thought that when Ragnvald killed Olaf, all of her possessions would be returned to her.
She only hoped her mother would not be too mistreated by Vigdis and Olaf now that neither of her children were there to bear witness. Svanhild could not let herself worry too much, though. Her mother had made her choice when she married Olaf rather than take her children back to her family. That she had done it to help preserve Ragnvald’s inheritance only excused her so much, especially now that Olaf had proven himself not to have enough honor to uphold Ragnvald’s right to the land.
Ragnvald bid his good-bye to Hilda with Hrolf frowning at them, kissed Svanhild on the cheek, and walked back across the field. He walked slowly and stiffly with his wound, but Svanhild thought he would be whole enough soon. He held his shoulders back as he walked, and if he felt much pain when he bid her good-bye, he kept it from his face. Svanhild could tell he was glad to have her gone, no matter how much he loved her. She was a burden for him now.
After they watched Ragnvald leave, Hilda engulfed Svanhild in a sisterly hug, and immediately set her to work packing up the family’s tents. As she rolled up a leather tent, a shadow fell over the weathered skin. She looked up to see Solvi standing over her. He was dressed for travel as well, in the armor and cloak that she had first seen him wearing.
“You could come with me instead,” he said without preamble.
He would have heard all about Olaf and her disposal with Hrolf’s family. Gossip traveled quickly around all of the Norse lands, and never faster than around the tents of the ting gathering.
“And be your concubine?” Svanhild asked acidly.
Solvi shrugged and then grinned. “Say wife, if you like.”
Svanhild tried not to be flattered by that. She had felt uncomfortable as Ragnvald’s hanger-on in Hakon’s tent, and she was still uncomfortable now as an unwanted burden for Hrolf Nefia’s family.
“I have heard nothing in Hakon’s camp but how King Harald came to promise your father’s doom,” she said. “Why should I make my home in a hall with a wolf already at the door?” It was not the reason she meant to say. She had far better reasons not to go with Solvi, beginning with the enmity between him and Ragnvald. She forced herself not to look away from his handsomeness. He had a fine face, and a smile she wanted to answer with her own, and if she looked at him long enough, she might grow accustomed to it.
His eyes grew shadowed for a moment, but then he smiled wider. “If we went elsewhere, to another land, you would say yes?”
“Another land, another life, another girl—woman, whose brother was still unscarred? Then perhaps.”
