The Half-Drowned King, page 15
“You cannot forgive me that? I gave your brother his treasure. I did it for you.”
She laughed. “Only out of fear of what I’d say,” she said, to bait him. “That kind of favor is not the sort of thing to set a maiden’s heart ablaze. And you didn’t tell the whole truth.”
She turned her eyes back to her packing, although she wanted to stand up and confront him. There was something undignified about kneeling on a rolled-up tent while they spoke.
“I got Ragnvald what I could. I couldn’t—”
“You couldn’t admit to being a murderer for hire? No, I think not.”
“I couldn’t call my father a murderer for hire,” said Solvi. Svanhild looked up at him again. She expected to see him still wearing his customary grin, disarming, false, but instead he looked troubled. “What would you have done? For your father?”
Unwillingly, Svanhild thought instead of what her mother had said, about the choices she made to protect her children. Wrong choices, perhaps, choices that brought Olaf into their lives, but choices made for the right reasons, which could not be undone.
“I?” Svanhild asked. “I am just a woman. What do women know of honor?”
“I think you know a great deal,” said Solvi. Now he smiled, and Svanhild grew angry that she had believed his show of sincerity.
“When Ragnvald returns, my stepmother will be a widow. She might like you,” said Svanhild waspishly. “She’s looking to trade up from Olaf. A king’s son, perhaps.”
“I know the type,” said Solvi. “I want you. And you like me, a little, I think. Or did, before you knew my name.”
“I did,” said Svanhild honestly, then scowled at herself for admitting that. It did her no good to tell him. Now he might think she would actually agree to his request. “I know who you are now. And you know what your actions have wrought.” She gestured at the bruised flesh of her face. Hilda’s sisters told her that her jaw was green, though the swelling was gone now.
“I’m sorry you were injured,” said Solvi. “Truly.”
“I will not be your concubine or your wife,” she said evenly, “but I thank you for the offer.” Somehow she thought he deserved that much. “Now leave me be.”
“You will not be happy as a farmer’s wife,” said Solvi. “You told me that.”
“I will not be happy in the household of men who tried to compass my brother’s death. You do not know me. I will be happy enough as a farmer’s wife.”
“Perhaps I do not know you,” he said. “Perhaps you do not know yourself yet. If you are unhappy in the household of Hrolf Nefia, send me a message, or come to me, Svanhild Eysteinsdatter. If Tafjord falls, we will find a home across the seas, or make the seas our home.” It was as if he did not hear her rejections, or did not care about them, and now he used her words against her, voicing her dreams. If only it was someone else that spoke them. If only he had chosen to disobey his father earlier.
“Farewell, Solvi Hunthiofsson,” said Svanhild. She stood and watched him with her arms crossed until he finally gave her a faint smile and walked away.
Svanhild continued her work with ill humor. She knew she had not gotten the better of that meeting. She should have made him understand how she loved doing farm work at Ardal, managing the dairy at the shieling, the high mountain pasture, herding the sheep out to graze in the morning and back to the barn in the evening. She loved the long days spent under the sun and clouds, the endless beauty of Ardal’s land. She loved the winter less, trapped inside with Vigdis and Ascrida, but when she ran a farm of her own, she would surround herself with the daughters of local farmers, pleasant girls whose company she would enjoy.
And if her husband brought in another wife—well, that could not be worse than being concubine to a sea king. When would she see one such as Solvi—every half year, when he came home from raiding? And the rest of the time she would be trapped in his dank hall, raising his brats, awaiting his return. Even if she wanted that kind of life, wanted him, Solvi was a man without honor, a man she could not consider.
She glanced around at Hilda and her sisters, each working at her task. She could not imagine any of them, even the headstrong Hilda, being tempted by an offer such as Solvi’s. She flushed and put her head down, working until her arms ached.
* * *
Hrolf’s farm was only a half day’s walk from the gathering grounds, though mostly uphill, so they did not leave until after the midday meal. Egil walked with the mule, who was prone to fits of sulkiness, and needed his cajoling to continue the upward march. Hilda and Svanhild went first among the women, just after Hilda’s father himself. Svanhild hurried to match Hilda’s long stride. She was so tall, it was like trying to keep up with Ragnvald again.
Hilda had other qualities that reminded Svanhild of Ragnvald as well: her quiet watchfulness, the way she kept her own counsel. Svanhild had wondered if Hilda would abandon Ragnvald when his luck was at its lowest ebb, but she had visited Ragnvald’s side as he healed, and the words they exchanged, in quiet voices, seemed to bring both of them contentment.
“Now you’re walking too fast,” Hilda called out to Svanhild, who looked back and saw that Hilda now carried her littlest sister, Ingifrid. “She can’t keep up.” Svanhild smiled ruefully, and slowed her pace. She looked behind her, memorizing the slope of the land, the path markers on the cairns they passed. “What do you seek?” Hilda asked. “Do you fear pursuit?”
“No,” she said. “My stepfather is too much of a coward.” Then, more diffidently, “I want to know my way back.”
“Do you expect to be traveling here alone?”
“I don’t know what to expect,” said Svanhild. Ragnvald had taught her to be always prepared, in the woods around Ardal, in which he knew every stump and fallen tree, and had showed her hidden hollows and groves where snowdrops bloomed in the spring in shafts of sunlight when all else was frozen still. She could see why he would not want to leave it.
In the late afternoon they stopped for water and a small meal. Svanhild did not know how to react to Hilda’s sisters, whose conversation seemed composed entirely of little barbs, and she could not tell which ones would produce a stony silence and which gales of laughter. They tried with Svanhild as well, needling her about her height—shorter than Hilda’s next three younger sisters—about Solvi, calling him crippled and twisted; about Ragnvald, which made Hilda scowl as much as Svanhild did.
“There it is,” said Hilda when they first caught a glimpse of Hrolf’s hall. It stood on the edge of the forest, a border space that looked half in another world, a haunted world of more gray than color. The vegetable garden was shaded; stalks straggled along the ground, seeking light. The hall’s planks were weathered, rather than gleaming with fat rubbed into the wood, as fine halls were. Ardal was not so different from this building now, even if Ragnvald said it had gleamed when he was young. All but the richest farms needed all of their fat for light and cooking.
Hilda made room for Svanhild in her sleeping chamber. Svanhild did not feel tired, though, not even after the long walk from the assembly plain at Jostedal.
“I’m glad you’re here,” said Hilda to Svanhild. “Do you think you’ll be able to sleep?”
“It’s much quieter than the hall at Ardal. Olaf keeps more men than your father does,” said Svanhild. Hilda was silent, and Svanhild worried that it might sound like a reproach. “I shall be glad not to hear their snores,” she added.
“Where do you think Ragnvald sleeps tonight?” Hilda asked.
Svanhild sighed. Hilda had lost no opportunity to bring him up whenever they spoke during the day, clinging to that one subject they held in common.
“On some shore,” said Svanhild. “I wish I were there with him. Not that your family is not . . . kind to take me in, but . . .”
“I know,” said Hilda. “I would like to be where he is as well. But it is not our place.”
No, Hilda would not think so. She rolled over on her side, making a warm tent of blankets between the two of them, and slept, while Svanhild imagined that the sound of the wind through the rafters of the hall was the sound of waves instead, that Hilda’s snores were a sailor’s, and that this solid bench swayed because it carried her somewhere far away.
13
Hakon’s great train of followers meandered down the slope toward the fjord. Horses pulled carts over rough ground where they frequently became stuck, making the animals balky. Ill-tempered thralls carried heavy loads down steep hills, and stopped to rest every hundred steps. If Ragnvald were at his full strength, it would be less than a day’s walk to the shore where Hakon left his ships, but now he was grateful for the slow pace.
Hakon’s ranks had been swelled by men from the ting, all hoping to win gold fighting at his side—farmers’ younger sons, newly freed slaves, men who to Ragnvald, his every step tinged by pain, seemed either too young or too old, untrained in all but the most rudimentary fighting techniques.
They spoke of meeting the legendary Harald at Yrjar, and fighting for him as well. Ragnvald wondered at that. He could not imagine a sixteen-year-old boy king, no older than Svanhild, as anything but a figurehead. Hakon was a true king, grown mighty in wisdom, riches, and land. Ragnvald was content to follow him, lucky that Hakon had chosen him.
Their path overlooked the river Moen, whose waters passed the ting grounds, and which now plummeted over boulders, flying into the air and catching the sunlight. Wildflowers dotted the banks. The sound of rushing water and the wind flowing down the mountains was louder than the clanking and grumbling of Hakon’s train.
“How do you fare?” Oddi asked, coming up alongside Ragnvald, who resisted the urge to answer curtly. He had been grateful to spend a day without anyone’s solicitude, but he supposed this was better than being ignored.
“Well enough,” he said.
“Heming’s badgering Father for a fleet to sail against Solvi. Now, rather than in a year as we planned.”
“I’d go with him,” said Ragnvald, smiling wolfishly.
“Of course Father won’t do it—he’s still wroth with Heming over the duel.”
“Why did he do it?” Ragnvald asked.
“There was no insult, I’ll tell you that much,” said Oddi. “Heming is spoiled and jealous and—hello, brother.”
Heming’s horse stamped on the packed earth of the trail. “Have you walked enough, young Ragnvald? Would you rather not ride?”
Ragnvald turned and greeted Heming with wave and a bow. He rode a tall and sturdy-looking horse that must surely have had some Spanish blood to make its coat shine like that, coal in the sun. In his hand he held the reins of a mare, shorter and shaggy-haired, wearing a saddle with stirrups.
“Do not fear for my healing, my lord,” said Ragnvald, although he was sure Heming did not care about his wound at all.
“Are you refusing a chance to ride this fine mare here?” Heming asked.
He seemed in good spirits, and if Ragnvald had not seen him kill Runolf, perhaps he would not have been so suspicious. When Ragnvald did not respond, Heming added, “True, her dam was a fjord pony, but I do not scorn to ride her, and neither should you. She will keep walking after this high-spirited boy has fallen asleep.”
Ragnvald turned to see what Oddi would say. He did not merit a horse, or had chosen not to ride, but he had fallen back into the stream of people and cards.
“Thank you, my lord,” said Ragnvald to Heming. His ascent to the mare’s back was more laborious than he wanted it to be, but once he sat atop her, his leg began to ache, as though it had been waiting until he stopped to show how much it hurt.
“Thank you, my lord,” said Ragnvald again, with more feeling. “I do not mind the rest.”
“I thought not. I will still keep the pace slow—you do not sit as one long accustomed to the saddle.”
“No,” Ragnvald agreed. Before his father’s death, he had ridden a fjord pony all over Sogn with him; since then, he had sat upon the farm’s horses rarely.
“Your stepfather did not do well in that,” said Heming. “Among many other things, it seems.”
“There was a time when I would have argued with you,” said Ragnvald, “but no more.” Olaf had not judged the keeping of many horses to be worth the expense. One for his own pleasure was enough for him. Let oxen pull plows, and be made into stew meat when they grew too old.
They rode without speaking for a few minutes, the noise of Hakon’s procession filling the empty air. Even though they did not seem to be going very fast, every few minutes they overtook another foot traveler, until they reached the front of the procession, with only a few of Hakon’s guards riding within shouting distance.
“My father likes you,” said Heming.
“I am grateful for it,” said Ragnvald. “He does me honor.”
“Yes, he does,” said Heming, his tone implying that he thought it might be too much honor. “Why did you not want my baseborn brother to kill your stepfather?” So Heming wanted to remind Ragnvald of Oddi’s place in Hakon’s family. Oddi would not automatically inherit on Hakon’s death, since he was illegitimate, but he might still win acclaim, and his father might gift him with lands. When Ragnvald did not answer immediately, Heming added, “I have not seen Oddi so concerned about anything in a while.”
“I am honored to count him among my friends.” Ragnvald glanced at Heming, who was sneering slightly.
“I think you must have been fevered when you refused his help. Are you so bent on revenge that you must do your killing yourself?”
Ragnvald hesitated. What he said to Heming would be carried to Hakon, in one form or another. The slope their horses walked down steepened and grew slippery.
“Revenge is part of it,” said Ragnvald. “But what would have happened after your—after Oddi killed my stepfather? Either I would have had to go to Ardal, wounded, and contend with Olaf’s son Sigurd, or follow your father and leave Ardal in Sigurd’s hands.” A king, a jarl, even a simple farmer, owed his land his best protection, even if that came from someone else. His face felt hot as he spoke, but he did not want to stop speaking and have Heming think him dimwitted. “Our neighbor, Thorkell, is also Olaf’s cousin. It’s possible peace with him might be bought with Svanhild’s hand—he is canny and lazy, but I would not want to risk it.”
“If your sister would agree,” said Heming. “She seems too wild to buy anyone with.” Ragnvald looked at him sharply to see if the words carried insult, but instead he saw that Heming wore a thoughtful expression.
“I would not force her into a marriage, even were I in the position to do so,” said Ragnvald, even stiffer than before.
“You will need to show her she must obey you, soon or late,” said Heming, laughing. “Women need strong handling.”
An angry retort sprung to Ragnvald’s lips, and he suppressed it. “Well,” he said, after a moment, “how does that work with your sisters?”
Heming laughed, more good-natured this time. “I have not tried it,” he said. “My father directs their marriages, and my younger sister Asa was happy to marry Harald.”
“King Harald?” Ragnvald asked.
“Yes,” said Heming. “Do you not know the story?” Then, without waiting for Ragnvald to answer, he continued, “Before he was born his mother, a sorceress of renown, had a great dream, in which she saw him as a tree with bloody roots and green leaves, which meant that he would soak Norway in blood before bringing it prosperity.”
“That is what conquerors do, I suppose,” Ragnvald said.
“And,” said Heming, “he hasn’t conquered Norway yet, but he’s promising to do it, and in the meanwhile marrying every woman who takes his fancy and can bring him an ally.”
“Well, your sister Asa has grounds for a fine divorce,” said Ragnvald lightly. “A princess should be a first wife.”
Heming made a noise. “So you would not marry your sister to this Thorkell?”
“No, I would not. She is a brave girl, and would do what is necessary, but I would not like to ask it of her.” He returned to his grim view of the future he had avoided by joining Hakon. “Thorkell might find it a good time to attack, take Svanhild if he wanted. Wounded, still fighting Sigurd, we would be easy pickings. Now Olaf can guard my land for me, and whatever his shortcomings, he is competent enough for that.” He said this last hotly, daring Heming to question him.
“That seems like a good reason,” said Heming. “I can see why my father likes you. If he gives me permission, I would ride out and help you kill this Olaf. He’s a man who shouldn’t be left alive longer than he’s needed.”
Grudgingly, Ragnvald found himself warming to Heming. Perhaps he was nothing worse than a handsome and spoiled king’s son, no crueler, no worse than any other man with his birth and wealth.
“I mean to sail against Solvi,” said Heming abruptly, when they were side by side again. “Would you come with me?”
“With pleasure,” said Ragnvald. “If that is where your father sends me.”
“I mean to go whether he wills or no. And you can tell him that, if he asks.”
“Do you want me to?” It seemed now that this was what Heming wanted from him: if he could not have his father’s approval, Ragnvald’s might do.
“I don’t care,” said Heming. Ragnvald did not respond. “He defied his own father when he went to conquer Halogaland,” Heming added. “He forgets that.” He turned and looked Ragnvald up and down, the sneer returning. “You may keep the horse for the rest of the day,” he said. “Return it to me when we camp for the night.”
* * *
That evening the procession reached Hakon’s ships where he had left them beached on the shore of Lustra Fjord. Hakon’s stewards directed men in their loading until the sun dipped below the horizon at midnight.
In the morning, Oddi invited Ragnvald onto Hakon’s flagship, with all of his brothers. It was the sleekest ship, and would sail first, camp at the farms and halls of Hakon’s allies, while the others stayed on barren islands and wallowed in heavy seas.
