The Half-Drowned King, page 23
Svanhild remembered how relieved he had been to get rid of her, and did not reply.
“I can give you some advice about how to go from here,” Gerta continued. “We saw Hakon’s ships go by here six weeks or so ago, after the midsummer—the ting, I guess—and we haven’t seen them come back this way, not that that means anything. I suppose he’s at Yrjar still.”
“Why do the people at Kaupanger not go to the ting?” Svanhild asked.
Gerta pulled her braid over one shoulder. By the gray in her hair, she was older than Svanhild had originally thought, at least a decade older than Svanhild’s mother. She carried it well. The fine lines around her eyes made her look wise. She was tall, deep-breasted, and broad-shouldered, built like a strong man. She moved like one too.
“Most of us don’t stay here that long, and those that do, we turn our eyes toward the sea, not the farmland. This year we decided to have our own assembly to decide local governance questions. Sometimes King Hakon or King Hunthiof or one of the other petty little kings comes through and extracts some taxes from us, tries to tell us our business, but not since we hired on some boats to patrol the harbor and some warriors to make them think twice. We take care of ourselves here.”
Seeing that Svanhild looked confused, she smiled slightly. “But that’s not why you’re here.”
Svanhild nodded. She was embarrassed to have broken down crying. How could she brave the seas and go to find Ragnvald if she could not even walk through a town without fear? The cuts on her arms smarted.
“You’re putting yourself in danger,” said Gerta, “and that’s what.”
“What should I do, then? I can’t go back. I have to sell my brooches and find my brother.”
“I came from a farm like yours,” said Gerta. “Too many daughters.” She paused, as though she might say more. “I’ll tell you what I can. In a couple of hours a man I know will be ready to buy jewelry, and I’ll go with you while you try to sell your brooches. Give me a pinch, and I’ll make sure you get a good deal.”
Svanhild did not know what a pinch was, but she suspected it was some fraction of the price she fetched. Hopefully not a big fraction. It made her feel better to learn Gerta was not just helping her out of kindness. Kindness meant obligation, or a motive Svanhild could not fathom. When she sat under Gerta’s roof, Gerta owed her food and protection, by the laws of hospitality, but that meant nothing once they passed through Gerta’s door again. “Do you even keep laws of hospitality here?” she asked with sudden concern.
“Yes,” said Gerta. “Some of us do, and think of the town before themselves. We don’t want blood feud with your family. But hospitality doesn’t mean I’m not going to get my cut of your silver.”
“Do you have a husband or”—Svanhild paused, unsure of how to put it—“a man?” Or anyone else who might object to finding Svanhild here.
“Used to,” said Gerta. “Not sure they’re worth the bother, but I might marry again, if I find a man with a good head on his shoulders. Marriage is not so bad when you’re my age and you know what you want. A little girl like you, though, you shouldn’t have to make decisions like that on your own. Now help me cut these vegetables to pass the time.”
Svanhild took her dagger out of its sheath from around her waist and pared and sliced the huge heads of cabbage, while Gerta grunted over her work and put them in the soapstone pot hanging over the fire.
“Not bad,” said Gerta. “What else can you do?”
“I can herd cows and sheep and make cheese and things.”
“Can you spin or do tablet weaving?”
Svanhild shook her head. “No, I’m terrible at spinning.” She laughed and then tried to swallow the noise when she realized it sounded more like a sob. “I don’t know why Thorkell wanted to marry me.”
“Now, none of that,” said Gerta sternly. “Men get more foolish as they get older, I find, and women get wiser. Though it sounds like this brother of yours isn’t starting out too wise. Well, few of them do. We’ll get you to Yrjar if you want. If you had any handy skills, I might consider apprenticing you, but if you can’t spin, you’re not much use to me. Better you be a farmer’s wife, the right farmer this time. Someone your brother picks.”
“My grandfather was a king,” said Svanhild softly, but sitting up straighter.
“So was mine, or so I hear,” said Gerta. “Can’t throw a stone without hitting a king or would-be king around these parts.”
Svanhild could not argue with that, so she continued slicing vegetables. Gerta said that none of the shops would want to do business until after they ate their morning meal, which was closer to noon than what Svanhild thought of as morning. When they were done chopping vegetables, Gerta put Svanhild to work making a stew with the vegetables and a few shreds of cold, stringy beef.
“We don’t get much meat around here,” said Gerta, “unless it’s festival or the like. Milk neither. I don’t like to buy when I can do for myself. My cow gives me just enough.”
Svanhild did not have an answer for that. She could think of nothing to say to Gerta, who lived only a few days’ journey from Ardal, but had a life so different Svanhild could hardly imagine it.
“I might go up to Yrjar,” said Gerta. “Lots of bored men, I’d wager, waiting for fighting. Though they won’t have done their raiding yet, so they probably won’t have much silver to spend. Still, they’ll have sweethearts they want to impress.” Gerta tied the warp of her tablet weaving onto her belt. She turned the tablets and threw the shuttle so fast Svanhild could not follow her movements. Gerta looked down every few moments, but seemed to do the work enough by feel that she could watch Svanhild and frown at her. “Mind you don’t let that soup boil over. I don’t want to be missing any of it.”
After the vegetables had softened, Gerta said, “Show me what you have for sale.” Svanhild hesitated for a moment. Gerta had been kind, in her brusque, bossy way, but Svanhild knew nothing about her. “If I don’t see them, I won’t know the fair price,” Gerta added. Svanhild opened her pack and unknotted the sock that she had secreted the brooches in. They were of silver, with fine knotwork surrounding matched amber jewels, each larger than an acorn.
“Not bad,” said Gerta. “They want polishing.” She produced a rag from somewhere on her person. “Give them a good rub.” While Svanhild worked, Gerta banked the fire so it would not go out while they went on their business. She looked Svanhild up and down, critically.
“We need you to look richer, so you’ll get a better deal. The dress isn’t half bad.” Svanhild had changed into her other finer dress, which, wrapped in muslin in her pack, had stayed unsoiled despite her fall. “But your wimple won’t do.” She picked up a pile of cloth and pulled out a snowy white one with a blue ribbon along the edge, picked out in rust-colored thread. “This will suit you better,” she said. Svanhild tied the wimple on her head, under her hair, so it spread out in a long wave over her back. “That’s good,” said Gerta. “Now you stand up straight, and act like you do this all the time. Mind you pick up your skirts in the street. You don’t want what’s flowing there on them.”
Svanhild followed Gerta out into the street, between the houses. Now that the sun had risen above the fjord cliffs, the town stank even worse than it had in the morning, a mixture of meat and vegetable offal, of human waste, of seaweed and sweat. Svanhild nearly gagged with it. Gerta was a few steps ahead of her, with longer strides, and she hurried to keep up.
Crowds pressed in upon them at the center of the town. Gerta slowed her step and walked next to Svanhild. Men with bundles parted on either side of them. Men and women called out greetings to Gerta, which she acknowledged with a nod of her head. Svanhild tried to keep her head up as well, but she had to look at where she placed her feet to avoid stepping in dung.
“How do you know so many?” she asked.
Gerta nodded to another shopkeeper. “Since my husband’s death, I have been allowed to speak at our local assembly. Here we are.” She stopped in front of a wooden door that looked like all the rest.
“Is it—will they see us?”
“He will see me,” said Gerta. She rapped loudly on the door.
A short man with a squint opened it. “Eh, Gerta, it’s early.”
“Yes,” said Gerta, walking in, with Svanhild behind her. “Fasti, my niece Thorfrida is visiting me, and she has tired of her brooches. She would like to sell them to you.” Svanhild tried not to gape at Gerta’s lies. Gerta knew what she was doing here.
“Yes?” said Fasti. “My wife, may she rest peacefully, was called Thorfrida. It’s a lucky name. She was a beauty too. Didn’t give me children, but she was a good wife. Ah, have a seat.”
Svanhild wondered how lucky the name Thorfrida could be, if she was barren and dead, but she only thanked him for the compliment. Inside the room was neat and snug. Oil burned in sconces on the walls, giving the room an orange glow.
“Haven’t opened up yet,” he said. The shop had a hole cut in the wall, like a little door, with shutters, and these he pushed open, letting more light into the room. “A niece of Gerta must be lucky indeed,” he said. His squint deepened. “And wealthy.”
Svanhild had seen little evidence of Gerta’s wealth. Perhaps there was more to her than met the eye—or maybe she was only a good manager, who ate simply and kept her wealth for other things.
“Why don’t you see what we have for sale?” said Fasti. He brought over a tray of brooches, some worked in gold, others in silver, all of the metal so beautiful and well cared for that it seemed to invite her touch. She looked at Gerta. She was not here to buy.
“She might consider your trinkets,” said Gerta dismissively, “after she sees what you can give her for her brooches.” She nodded at Svanhild, who brought them out. They seemed plain next to the gold Fasti had shown her.
Fasti took them and turned them over in his hands. “Amber,” he said flatly.
“See how beautiful the pieces are,” said Gerta. “They are almost perfectly matched, and clear.”
Fasti held the brooches up to the light coming in from the window.
“They’re from Dublin,” said Svanhild, “the king’s court.”
“They are known for their silver workers,” said Gerta.
“Put out your hand,” said Fasti. He took out a small pouch of silver coins and counted them into Svanhild’s hand.
She realized that she had no idea what might be reasonable, what she might need to take her to Tafjord and beyond. Transactions at Ardal and even at the ting were as often in trade as coin. She had heard the law recited recently enough to know the price of a free man’s life, but not of her jewelry. She folded her palm around the coins. “My brooches weigh more than this,” she said hesitantly.
“Is that so?” Gerta asked. “Fasti, come now, you know I’m no fool. Did you think my niece would be as well?” Svanhild opened her hand and put it out. Quickly, Fasti doubled the amount of coin Svanhild held.
“That’s better,” said Svanhild. She glanced at Gerta. Gerta would not scruple to speak, so Svanhild must be doing well enough. “Still, I don’t know,” she said to Gerta. “Didn’t you say there was another jeweler we could try?”
Fasti spat on the floor. “Haki? You would trust him over me?”
Svanhild looked to Gerta, who tilted her head, as if considering. “I’m sure you are doing the best you can for us,” Gerta said. “These are hard times.” She caught Svanhild’s eye again, and Svanhild thought she saw the corner of Gerta’s mouth quirk.
“Put this silver aside for us,” said Svanhild. “We will return after talking with Haki.”
“Five more coins if you take it now,” said Fasti. “And come back to look at my wares again.” Svanhild looked at Gerta, and pretended to think it over. It seemed like a game, one Svanhild liked, and thought she was playing well.
“Yes, of course,” said Svanhild. “You are a very fair trader.” Gerta produced a small satchel for Svanhild to pour the coin into, and secured it to her own belt. “Perhaps I had better . . . ,” said Svanhild, not liking to see it there.
Gerta gave her a stern look. “Thank you, Fasti, of course we will return.”
“Yes,” said Svanhild. She gave him a curtsy. “Your wares are enchanting.”
She followed Gerta out onto the street, sticking close to her as a burr. If Gerta meant to take the coin from her, there was little Svanhild could do about it. Gerta was taller and stronger than her, and more than that, Gerta had the respect of the whole town, while Svanhild was a stranger.
They returned to Gerta’s house the same way they had come; Svanhild noticed that the houses, which had all seemed the same before now, had subtle variations, banners of different colors hanging from them, open doors and windows.
As soon as they returned to Gerta’s house, she untied the coin purse and gave it to Svanhild. “You’re a sour little thing,” she said. “Did you think I would cheat you?”
“Well,” said Svanhild, feeling a bit ashamed now, “you did lie to Fasti.”
“I help you, you help me,” she said. “Not everything is swords and oaths like that tale you told me of your brother. Here, we trade instead. And anyway, I’ve brought Fasti nieces before—he knows it’s a game we play.”
“Are all your nieces named Thorfrida?” Svanhild asked, her hands on her hips.
Gerta smiled at that. “No, I’ve not tried that before. It will only work once, so count yourself lucky. Now, you’re a fair hand with a bargain, but you never would have made that deal on your own, so I want my fair measure.”
Svanhild felt badly about having mistrusted Gerta, and pulled out a few more coins than she had originally intended to give Gerta. From the way Gerta smiled as she closed her hand around them, Svanhild thought maybe that was the point of this whole little charade—Gerta had pushed Svanhild into mistrusting her and then feeling guilty for it. Svanhild poured out the rest of the coins into the sock she had been using for her brooches, and knotted it tight. She handed the coin purse back to Gerta.
“Does everyone here play these games?” she asked, gesturing at Gerta’s hand, which still clasped the coins Svanhild had given her.
“Yes,” said Gerta, “and you’ve a skill with them I didn’t guess. Though you can’t let yourself be swayed by a little indignance from your target.”
“Thank you for the lesson,” Svanhild said crisply, but without much rancor. She still needed Gerta to help her find a ship.
“Are you sure you couldn’t learn to weave on the tablets?” Gerta asked. “It is not much different from regular weaving. I need a girl here, to learn my craft. If you stay, you won’t have to ask your brother for his protection.”
As much as Gerta had irritated her, Svanhild wished she could say yes. Gerta had as much freedom as she could buy or bargain for. She was respected in Kaupanger and did not seem to worry about the wider world, except in how it brought coin to her hand. But Svanhild had no skill at anything that could be sold here; she was born and made to run a household, to sew up a warrior’s wounds, to face down summer raiders, not for this petty handling of material, here on the fringes of society.
She shook her head. “I’m hopeless.”
Gerta nodded, not seeming too worried. “I thought as much. And you’ve family and blood,” she said, meditatively.
“Will you still help me find a ship to go to Yrjar?”
“Yes,” said Gerta. “Remember me when you’re fine and married to a king. Now, can you at least help me sort some flax? Or is her ladyship hopeless at that too?”
“I can do that,” said Svanhild, stung by the sarcasm.
She sat with Gerta the rest of the day, picking through the fine fibers, separating short stricks from long tow. During the afternoon, men and women came to talk with Gerta about various issues affecting the town, and Gerta gave her opinion. In the evening, they ate the stew Svanhild had made. Gerta drank ale—at first Svanhild tried to join her, but Gerta drank glass after glass, and fell asleep with her head on her kitchen table. Svanhild covered her with a blanket and found a straw mattress to curl up on.
Outside, the sounds of voices in the town, of animals carrying loads, continued into the night. Gerta snored. Svanhild tried to imagine what the next day would bring, until she too fell asleep.
19
Before twilight, Guthorm’s scouts returned with news that the meeting of kings would be held at King Gudbrand’s hall. The kings had been together for a few days, and next day was the great feast. They should be sleeping off their drunkenness when Guthorm’s forces arrived. All depended on secrecy and speed, or the seven kings would scatter, return to their halls, and muster men to fight. Guthorm had even brought Harald’s mother, Ronhild, along with them to chant her spells and ensure that they remained hidden. Ragnvald had only seen a glimpse of her so far on this journey, sitting cross-legged at the foot of the flagship’s mast, her long fair hair in a plait down her back.
Ragnvald was last to the ship. He pushed it off the sandy bottom and swung himself up into the bow, keeping his mouth shut over any grunt of effort that might escape. He made his way toward the front of the ship through the press of tense and silent bodies.
Harald’s ship Dragon Tongue sailed up the river, with Oddi’s Bear Biter behind her. They kept the dragon figureheads stowed, and did not hang their shields from the sides of the ship.
This land seemed strange to Ragnvald. They had passed between high cliffs while navigating the main body of the fjord, but the walls of the tributary fell away quickly and had low, sloped banks, which widened the farther inland they sailed. On one bank, a boy waved a switch at the backside of a fat ewe. His mouth hung slack as he watched the ships go by.
Ragnvald flexed his hands. He had left the blood from the day before to dry on the backs, and now it prickled. He examined the base of his thumb, where the boy had bitten him. His teeth had drawn blood. Ragnvald would have to treat the wound carefully. He had seen bites go putrid within days. One of Solvi’s men, who had suffered a bite from a struggling woman, had his hand hacked off by the healers, and even that had not saved him from death by fever. Ragnvald wrapped a cloth around the wound, and tied the ends.
“I can give you some advice about how to go from here,” Gerta continued. “We saw Hakon’s ships go by here six weeks or so ago, after the midsummer—the ting, I guess—and we haven’t seen them come back this way, not that that means anything. I suppose he’s at Yrjar still.”
“Why do the people at Kaupanger not go to the ting?” Svanhild asked.
Gerta pulled her braid over one shoulder. By the gray in her hair, she was older than Svanhild had originally thought, at least a decade older than Svanhild’s mother. She carried it well. The fine lines around her eyes made her look wise. She was tall, deep-breasted, and broad-shouldered, built like a strong man. She moved like one too.
“Most of us don’t stay here that long, and those that do, we turn our eyes toward the sea, not the farmland. This year we decided to have our own assembly to decide local governance questions. Sometimes King Hakon or King Hunthiof or one of the other petty little kings comes through and extracts some taxes from us, tries to tell us our business, but not since we hired on some boats to patrol the harbor and some warriors to make them think twice. We take care of ourselves here.”
Seeing that Svanhild looked confused, she smiled slightly. “But that’s not why you’re here.”
Svanhild nodded. She was embarrassed to have broken down crying. How could she brave the seas and go to find Ragnvald if she could not even walk through a town without fear? The cuts on her arms smarted.
“You’re putting yourself in danger,” said Gerta, “and that’s what.”
“What should I do, then? I can’t go back. I have to sell my brooches and find my brother.”
“I came from a farm like yours,” said Gerta. “Too many daughters.” She paused, as though she might say more. “I’ll tell you what I can. In a couple of hours a man I know will be ready to buy jewelry, and I’ll go with you while you try to sell your brooches. Give me a pinch, and I’ll make sure you get a good deal.”
Svanhild did not know what a pinch was, but she suspected it was some fraction of the price she fetched. Hopefully not a big fraction. It made her feel better to learn Gerta was not just helping her out of kindness. Kindness meant obligation, or a motive Svanhild could not fathom. When she sat under Gerta’s roof, Gerta owed her food and protection, by the laws of hospitality, but that meant nothing once they passed through Gerta’s door again. “Do you even keep laws of hospitality here?” she asked with sudden concern.
“Yes,” said Gerta. “Some of us do, and think of the town before themselves. We don’t want blood feud with your family. But hospitality doesn’t mean I’m not going to get my cut of your silver.”
“Do you have a husband or”—Svanhild paused, unsure of how to put it—“a man?” Or anyone else who might object to finding Svanhild here.
“Used to,” said Gerta. “Not sure they’re worth the bother, but I might marry again, if I find a man with a good head on his shoulders. Marriage is not so bad when you’re my age and you know what you want. A little girl like you, though, you shouldn’t have to make decisions like that on your own. Now help me cut these vegetables to pass the time.”
Svanhild took her dagger out of its sheath from around her waist and pared and sliced the huge heads of cabbage, while Gerta grunted over her work and put them in the soapstone pot hanging over the fire.
“Not bad,” said Gerta. “What else can you do?”
“I can herd cows and sheep and make cheese and things.”
“Can you spin or do tablet weaving?”
Svanhild shook her head. “No, I’m terrible at spinning.” She laughed and then tried to swallow the noise when she realized it sounded more like a sob. “I don’t know why Thorkell wanted to marry me.”
“Now, none of that,” said Gerta sternly. “Men get more foolish as they get older, I find, and women get wiser. Though it sounds like this brother of yours isn’t starting out too wise. Well, few of them do. We’ll get you to Yrjar if you want. If you had any handy skills, I might consider apprenticing you, but if you can’t spin, you’re not much use to me. Better you be a farmer’s wife, the right farmer this time. Someone your brother picks.”
“My grandfather was a king,” said Svanhild softly, but sitting up straighter.
“So was mine, or so I hear,” said Gerta. “Can’t throw a stone without hitting a king or would-be king around these parts.”
Svanhild could not argue with that, so she continued slicing vegetables. Gerta said that none of the shops would want to do business until after they ate their morning meal, which was closer to noon than what Svanhild thought of as morning. When they were done chopping vegetables, Gerta put Svanhild to work making a stew with the vegetables and a few shreds of cold, stringy beef.
“We don’t get much meat around here,” said Gerta, “unless it’s festival or the like. Milk neither. I don’t like to buy when I can do for myself. My cow gives me just enough.”
Svanhild did not have an answer for that. She could think of nothing to say to Gerta, who lived only a few days’ journey from Ardal, but had a life so different Svanhild could hardly imagine it.
“I might go up to Yrjar,” said Gerta. “Lots of bored men, I’d wager, waiting for fighting. Though they won’t have done their raiding yet, so they probably won’t have much silver to spend. Still, they’ll have sweethearts they want to impress.” Gerta tied the warp of her tablet weaving onto her belt. She turned the tablets and threw the shuttle so fast Svanhild could not follow her movements. Gerta looked down every few moments, but seemed to do the work enough by feel that she could watch Svanhild and frown at her. “Mind you don’t let that soup boil over. I don’t want to be missing any of it.”
After the vegetables had softened, Gerta said, “Show me what you have for sale.” Svanhild hesitated for a moment. Gerta had been kind, in her brusque, bossy way, but Svanhild knew nothing about her. “If I don’t see them, I won’t know the fair price,” Gerta added. Svanhild opened her pack and unknotted the sock that she had secreted the brooches in. They were of silver, with fine knotwork surrounding matched amber jewels, each larger than an acorn.
“Not bad,” said Gerta. “They want polishing.” She produced a rag from somewhere on her person. “Give them a good rub.” While Svanhild worked, Gerta banked the fire so it would not go out while they went on their business. She looked Svanhild up and down, critically.
“We need you to look richer, so you’ll get a better deal. The dress isn’t half bad.” Svanhild had changed into her other finer dress, which, wrapped in muslin in her pack, had stayed unsoiled despite her fall. “But your wimple won’t do.” She picked up a pile of cloth and pulled out a snowy white one with a blue ribbon along the edge, picked out in rust-colored thread. “This will suit you better,” she said. Svanhild tied the wimple on her head, under her hair, so it spread out in a long wave over her back. “That’s good,” said Gerta. “Now you stand up straight, and act like you do this all the time. Mind you pick up your skirts in the street. You don’t want what’s flowing there on them.”
Svanhild followed Gerta out into the street, between the houses. Now that the sun had risen above the fjord cliffs, the town stank even worse than it had in the morning, a mixture of meat and vegetable offal, of human waste, of seaweed and sweat. Svanhild nearly gagged with it. Gerta was a few steps ahead of her, with longer strides, and she hurried to keep up.
Crowds pressed in upon them at the center of the town. Gerta slowed her step and walked next to Svanhild. Men with bundles parted on either side of them. Men and women called out greetings to Gerta, which she acknowledged with a nod of her head. Svanhild tried to keep her head up as well, but she had to look at where she placed her feet to avoid stepping in dung.
“How do you know so many?” she asked.
Gerta nodded to another shopkeeper. “Since my husband’s death, I have been allowed to speak at our local assembly. Here we are.” She stopped in front of a wooden door that looked like all the rest.
“Is it—will they see us?”
“He will see me,” said Gerta. She rapped loudly on the door.
A short man with a squint opened it. “Eh, Gerta, it’s early.”
“Yes,” said Gerta, walking in, with Svanhild behind her. “Fasti, my niece Thorfrida is visiting me, and she has tired of her brooches. She would like to sell them to you.” Svanhild tried not to gape at Gerta’s lies. Gerta knew what she was doing here.
“Yes?” said Fasti. “My wife, may she rest peacefully, was called Thorfrida. It’s a lucky name. She was a beauty too. Didn’t give me children, but she was a good wife. Ah, have a seat.”
Svanhild wondered how lucky the name Thorfrida could be, if she was barren and dead, but she only thanked him for the compliment. Inside the room was neat and snug. Oil burned in sconces on the walls, giving the room an orange glow.
“Haven’t opened up yet,” he said. The shop had a hole cut in the wall, like a little door, with shutters, and these he pushed open, letting more light into the room. “A niece of Gerta must be lucky indeed,” he said. His squint deepened. “And wealthy.”
Svanhild had seen little evidence of Gerta’s wealth. Perhaps there was more to her than met the eye—or maybe she was only a good manager, who ate simply and kept her wealth for other things.
“Why don’t you see what we have for sale?” said Fasti. He brought over a tray of brooches, some worked in gold, others in silver, all of the metal so beautiful and well cared for that it seemed to invite her touch. She looked at Gerta. She was not here to buy.
“She might consider your trinkets,” said Gerta dismissively, “after she sees what you can give her for her brooches.” She nodded at Svanhild, who brought them out. They seemed plain next to the gold Fasti had shown her.
Fasti took them and turned them over in his hands. “Amber,” he said flatly.
“See how beautiful the pieces are,” said Gerta. “They are almost perfectly matched, and clear.”
Fasti held the brooches up to the light coming in from the window.
“They’re from Dublin,” said Svanhild, “the king’s court.”
“They are known for their silver workers,” said Gerta.
“Put out your hand,” said Fasti. He took out a small pouch of silver coins and counted them into Svanhild’s hand.
She realized that she had no idea what might be reasonable, what she might need to take her to Tafjord and beyond. Transactions at Ardal and even at the ting were as often in trade as coin. She had heard the law recited recently enough to know the price of a free man’s life, but not of her jewelry. She folded her palm around the coins. “My brooches weigh more than this,” she said hesitantly.
“Is that so?” Gerta asked. “Fasti, come now, you know I’m no fool. Did you think my niece would be as well?” Svanhild opened her hand and put it out. Quickly, Fasti doubled the amount of coin Svanhild held.
“That’s better,” said Svanhild. She glanced at Gerta. Gerta would not scruple to speak, so Svanhild must be doing well enough. “Still, I don’t know,” she said to Gerta. “Didn’t you say there was another jeweler we could try?”
Fasti spat on the floor. “Haki? You would trust him over me?”
Svanhild looked to Gerta, who tilted her head, as if considering. “I’m sure you are doing the best you can for us,” Gerta said. “These are hard times.” She caught Svanhild’s eye again, and Svanhild thought she saw the corner of Gerta’s mouth quirk.
“Put this silver aside for us,” said Svanhild. “We will return after talking with Haki.”
“Five more coins if you take it now,” said Fasti. “And come back to look at my wares again.” Svanhild looked at Gerta, and pretended to think it over. It seemed like a game, one Svanhild liked, and thought she was playing well.
“Yes, of course,” said Svanhild. “You are a very fair trader.” Gerta produced a small satchel for Svanhild to pour the coin into, and secured it to her own belt. “Perhaps I had better . . . ,” said Svanhild, not liking to see it there.
Gerta gave her a stern look. “Thank you, Fasti, of course we will return.”
“Yes,” said Svanhild. She gave him a curtsy. “Your wares are enchanting.”
She followed Gerta out onto the street, sticking close to her as a burr. If Gerta meant to take the coin from her, there was little Svanhild could do about it. Gerta was taller and stronger than her, and more than that, Gerta had the respect of the whole town, while Svanhild was a stranger.
They returned to Gerta’s house the same way they had come; Svanhild noticed that the houses, which had all seemed the same before now, had subtle variations, banners of different colors hanging from them, open doors and windows.
As soon as they returned to Gerta’s house, she untied the coin purse and gave it to Svanhild. “You’re a sour little thing,” she said. “Did you think I would cheat you?”
“Well,” said Svanhild, feeling a bit ashamed now, “you did lie to Fasti.”
“I help you, you help me,” she said. “Not everything is swords and oaths like that tale you told me of your brother. Here, we trade instead. And anyway, I’ve brought Fasti nieces before—he knows it’s a game we play.”
“Are all your nieces named Thorfrida?” Svanhild asked, her hands on her hips.
Gerta smiled at that. “No, I’ve not tried that before. It will only work once, so count yourself lucky. Now, you’re a fair hand with a bargain, but you never would have made that deal on your own, so I want my fair measure.”
Svanhild felt badly about having mistrusted Gerta, and pulled out a few more coins than she had originally intended to give Gerta. From the way Gerta smiled as she closed her hand around them, Svanhild thought maybe that was the point of this whole little charade—Gerta had pushed Svanhild into mistrusting her and then feeling guilty for it. Svanhild poured out the rest of the coins into the sock she had been using for her brooches, and knotted it tight. She handed the coin purse back to Gerta.
“Does everyone here play these games?” she asked, gesturing at Gerta’s hand, which still clasped the coins Svanhild had given her.
“Yes,” said Gerta, “and you’ve a skill with them I didn’t guess. Though you can’t let yourself be swayed by a little indignance from your target.”
“Thank you for the lesson,” Svanhild said crisply, but without much rancor. She still needed Gerta to help her find a ship.
“Are you sure you couldn’t learn to weave on the tablets?” Gerta asked. “It is not much different from regular weaving. I need a girl here, to learn my craft. If you stay, you won’t have to ask your brother for his protection.”
As much as Gerta had irritated her, Svanhild wished she could say yes. Gerta had as much freedom as she could buy or bargain for. She was respected in Kaupanger and did not seem to worry about the wider world, except in how it brought coin to her hand. But Svanhild had no skill at anything that could be sold here; she was born and made to run a household, to sew up a warrior’s wounds, to face down summer raiders, not for this petty handling of material, here on the fringes of society.
She shook her head. “I’m hopeless.”
Gerta nodded, not seeming too worried. “I thought as much. And you’ve family and blood,” she said, meditatively.
“Will you still help me find a ship to go to Yrjar?”
“Yes,” said Gerta. “Remember me when you’re fine and married to a king. Now, can you at least help me sort some flax? Or is her ladyship hopeless at that too?”
“I can do that,” said Svanhild, stung by the sarcasm.
She sat with Gerta the rest of the day, picking through the fine fibers, separating short stricks from long tow. During the afternoon, men and women came to talk with Gerta about various issues affecting the town, and Gerta gave her opinion. In the evening, they ate the stew Svanhild had made. Gerta drank ale—at first Svanhild tried to join her, but Gerta drank glass after glass, and fell asleep with her head on her kitchen table. Svanhild covered her with a blanket and found a straw mattress to curl up on.
Outside, the sounds of voices in the town, of animals carrying loads, continued into the night. Gerta snored. Svanhild tried to imagine what the next day would bring, until she too fell asleep.
19
Before twilight, Guthorm’s scouts returned with news that the meeting of kings would be held at King Gudbrand’s hall. The kings had been together for a few days, and next day was the great feast. They should be sleeping off their drunkenness when Guthorm’s forces arrived. All depended on secrecy and speed, or the seven kings would scatter, return to their halls, and muster men to fight. Guthorm had even brought Harald’s mother, Ronhild, along with them to chant her spells and ensure that they remained hidden. Ragnvald had only seen a glimpse of her so far on this journey, sitting cross-legged at the foot of the flagship’s mast, her long fair hair in a plait down her back.
Ragnvald was last to the ship. He pushed it off the sandy bottom and swung himself up into the bow, keeping his mouth shut over any grunt of effort that might escape. He made his way toward the front of the ship through the press of tense and silent bodies.
Harald’s ship Dragon Tongue sailed up the river, with Oddi’s Bear Biter behind her. They kept the dragon figureheads stowed, and did not hang their shields from the sides of the ship.
This land seemed strange to Ragnvald. They had passed between high cliffs while navigating the main body of the fjord, but the walls of the tributary fell away quickly and had low, sloped banks, which widened the farther inland they sailed. On one bank, a boy waved a switch at the backside of a fat ewe. His mouth hung slack as he watched the ships go by.
Ragnvald flexed his hands. He had left the blood from the day before to dry on the backs, and now it prickled. He examined the base of his thumb, where the boy had bitten him. His teeth had drawn blood. Ragnvald would have to treat the wound carefully. He had seen bites go putrid within days. One of Solvi’s men, who had suffered a bite from a struggling woman, had his hand hacked off by the healers, and even that had not saved him from death by fever. Ragnvald wrapped a cloth around the wound, and tied the ends.
