The Half-Drowned King, page 40
Ragnvald was not at all sure that was true, but he would not convince Hakon tonight. “I will tell Harald that, if I have your leave to go.”
“You never had my leave to be here in the first place,” Hakon responded. “Do not return.”
* * *
Guthorm judged that tempers should cool over the course of a week. He and Ragnvald worked together to make Harald swear not to harm Heming in that time. Ragnvald feared that speaking with Heming would undermine his standing in Harald’s eyes, but he kept watch over him whenever possible to prevent any of Harald’s men from doing him harm. From time to time he caught Heming’s eye and saw a desperate and frightened look there, like no expression he had ever seen on Heming’s face before.
Harald and Guthorm held a funeral for Thorbrand and buried him. Erindis haunted Harald’s hall, unspeaking, deep blue shadows around her eyes. It would be better if Guthorm could get her out of the way, send her to a nearby retainer—Harald’s anger might cool without always having her as a reminder—but the weather had turned cold again, a soggy spring blizzard making travel impossible.
After the week was over, Guthorm brought Hakon with a large contingent of guards, as well as his sons, into Harald’s hall to speak about Heming’s fate. Harald had not been willing to consider anything other than killing Heming. Ragnvald and Guthorm’s patience had grown thin.
“It was a mistake,” said Hakon as soon as he came in, as though the words could wait no longer. He made for the space at the head of the hall where Harald trod back and forth, waiting for him.
“That doesn’t matter,” said Harald, his voice pitched high. “They should not have been fighting.”
“You want to make a kingdom of men without honor,” said Hakon. “Not a kingdom for me or my sons.”
They stood toe to toe again, and Ragnvald thought they might come to blows themselves. Guthorm interposed himself between them and pressed them both apart. “You come here today to determine Heming’s fate,” he said formally. “This must be settled.” He turned to Harald. “Men must be able to settle their differences. Harald does not want to outlaw duels, only put requirements on them so they do not lead to blood feuds. And he did not want to see two of his dear captains injured or killed.” Harald sneered at the inclusion of Heming in that description, but did not speak further.
“Now that you are both here, is there any way we can make peace?” Ragnvald asked. “We have a common enemy in Solvi Hunthiofsson and his allies.”
“You,” said Harald angrily. “You and my uncle have kept me from taking my revenge these seven days. Thorbrand’s spirit will not rest until he has it.”
Guthorm turned to Hakon, ignoring both Harald and Ragnvald. “Heming fomented this conflict. At every turn, Thorbrand would have been willing to see it end. And Heming killed a man in a duel to first blood. He could have taken blood much more easily.”
“Anything can happen in a duel,” said Hakon. “I will pay this captain’s price. You will not like to pay my price if you hurt my son.”
“You threaten me?” Harald asked, stepping in close to him again.
“Enough,” Guthorm roared. “We will come to an agreement.”
Hakon sneered. “With you to broker it? I can see how you will want this to come out.”
“Who would you have?” Guthorm asked. “No man here stands above this fray.”
That might be Hakon’s purpose in raising the issue. He could refuse to abide by any agreement, if he did not like how it came about.
“Ragnvald Eysteinsson,” said Hakon after a moment. Ragnvald did not even recognize that Hakon had spoken his name at first, so unlikely did this choice seem. He looked at Hakon. “Yes, Ragnvald,” Hakon continued. “I have always found him fair.”
“He is sworn to you,” said Harald. “His judgment is suspect.”
“Ragnvald is a man of honor,” said Hakon. “And all know he wishes to be your captain more than mine.”
“I am sworn to King Hakon,” said Ragnvald. “I cannot judge.”
Guthorm beckoned Harald over, and they consulted quietly for a moment. Harald turned back toward Ragnvald and Hakon, still looking stormy, but less wild.
“You must,” said Harald. “Hakon could choose no other man whose word I would also abide.”
Ragnvald looked to Guthorm, hoping he would speak to end this. If he could thread a path between these two giants without being crushed between them, he would need the silver tongue of Loki.
“As you judge this dispute, so may the gods judge you,” said Guthorm.
Ragnvald bowed his head. “I owe both of you duty. I will do my best to broker a fair agreement.”
He paced for a moment. He could think of nothing but the ting trial, and how the law speaker must call witnesses, how the verdict and decision must at least appear fair for all to accept it. He walked over to the fire and took up a poker of thick, twisted iron that hung nearby.
“This will be our speaking stick,” he said, “if none object.” None did. “I do not believe that anyone doubts the facts of what happened,” Ragnvald continued, “but since Hakon was not there, let them be restated.”
Again, no one objected. Ragnvald related what he had seen. He called witnesses who had seen them set up the duel, who had heard both Heming and Thorbrand threaten any man who ran to tell Harald or Hakon. All of the witnesses said that both men had been bent on the duel.
Next Ragnvald called Heming to give his own version of events. His story did not deviate much from what the witnesses reported. “Thorbrand sent his man to me to propose a duel,” Heming said. “We arranged it through those men.” He gave Ragnvald a beseeching look. “Do not punish them. They only did what we asked.”
“That will be decided after,” said Harald. Ragnvald shot him a quelling look.
“I did not mean to kill Thorbrand,” Heming said finally. A duel to first blood could always go to death, with a lucky strike, but Heming said that had not been his intention. He swore it on every god he knew.
He hung his head. He looked much the worse for spending a week tied up in Harald’s hall. His hair hung down lankly, and his mouth was smeared with bits of food. Ragnvald had seen that he was untied often enough not to suffer injury from it, but Harald’s men had still found ways to abuse him.
“What did you mean to do?” Ragnvald asked.
“I meant to give him a terrible scar.” Heming gave Ragnvald the smallest of smiles. “Like yours, but far worse.” He looked around at everyone, the men gathered to judge him, at least in their minds. “If I could change this fate, I would. I do not want to die, but I will accept outlawry—”
“No,” cried Hakon.
“No,” Ragnvald repeated, more calmly. “We do not speak of punishment yet.” He raised the poker again and said, “King Harald and King Hakon, the two most powerful men in the Norse peninsula. When a jury gives a verdict, the men of the district swear to uphold the decision. Here, none can make you abide by a decision except your own will, and the gods’. I do not plan to decide for you. I only hope for you to agree, and swear out your agreement.”
Neither Harald nor Hakon said a word. “King Harald,” Ragnvald continued. “Hakon’s son Heming killed your captain, Thorbrand, by error. You have demanded his death. Is there any other payment or punishment that would satisfy you?”
He handed the poker to Harald. Harald looked uncertain. He glanced at Guthorm, and his shoulders slumped. “Heming must go into exile and never return to Norway,” he said. “King Hakon must turn over rulership and taxes from all Norse lands other than Halogaland and Stjordal. I will install kings of my choosing to rule Hordaland and Maer, when we take it. Finally, Hakon must pay Thorbrand’s wergild: his weight in gold.”
Hakon had been growing angrier as Harald spoke, and when he finished, Hakon put his hand to his sword. “Never,” said Hakon. “My sons must have land.” He pushed Ragnvald aside and stood chest to chest with Harald. “You will never rule western Norway. You will not even leave here alive.”
Harald had handed the poker off to Ragnvald, who banged it on the stone floor. “This is a negotiation,” Ragnvald yelled. He continued in a calmer voice. “King Hakon must make a counteroffer.” He held out the poker to Hakon.
Hakon swiped it out of Ragnvald’s hand, and spoke to Harald. “You will take the common payment for a man of Thorbrand’s stature, and leave my son with me, and I will forget the insult you have done me by taking him captive. If you have the strength for it, you can share rule of Norway with my sons.”
Ragnvald held out his hand for the poker. “You will not offer a more generous payment to King Harald for the loss of his captain and friend?” he asked, starting to feel desperate. At least Harald no longer wanted Heming killed, but Ragnvald cared more about this alliance than about Heming’s life.
“That I do not kill him where he stands for his treatment of my son is payment enough.”
“King Harald, will you allow King Hakon to expand his territory if he pays you your land taxes?” Ragnvald asked.
“I thought you might try to be fair,” said Hakon to Ragnvald, before Harald could answer. “You are sworn to me.”
“Fair to you?” Harald said. “Heming should die for what he did.”
The anger that Ragnvald had been trying to tamp down needed an outlet. “You should have guided your son better,” he said to Hakon. He turned to face Harald. “And you should have been satisfied with a wergild.” With everyone looking at him, Ragnvald smiled mirthlessly. “A king must think of more than his personal pain. Would you rather hurt each other than rule Norway?”
For a moment Harald looked shamed, but Hakon rushed at Ragnvald, and stood within spitting distance of him. “How dare you speak to me this way? You swore to me. You swore to me.”
“He was never yours,” said Harald. “But he shows me no loyalty either.”
“I swore to uphold your interests,” said Ragnvald to Hakon. Then, to Harald: “You are my king. You need Hakon, and you may have lost him forever.”
“Get out of my sight,” said Harald. “I swear, I will kill Heming tonight.”
“Then you are a fool,” said Ragnvald coolly. He dropped the poker. He had passed beyond the heat of anger into some barren place where he felt no emotion. He was grateful for it—he could be angry and sorrowful later. “Do I have your leave to go, my king?”
“Go,” said Harald. “Go and do not come back.”
Ragnvald left.
32
Given the crowded conditions of Harald’s hall, Ragnvald had kept his belongings few and well packed, to occupy as little space as possible. He now owned a few more sets of clothing than he had set out with, and many handfuls of silver. Silver enough to hire men at Dorestad or Kaupanger to help him retake Ardal, perhaps. It would not take many men. Once he had Ardal, then he could think of Svanhild and Solvi.
Some fishing boats still plied the waters of Oslo Fjord. They came and sold their fish to the Vestfold halls. Merchants, too, came and sold their wares to bored warriors and their wives. Ragnvald found a man named Frosti who had sold all his goods and wanted to leave now, before the wars resumed. He had a small crew, and was content to ferry Ragnvald wherever he wished. The tide even favored leaving this night.
Ragnvald was helping Frosti move some packages into the boat when he heard footsteps behind him. He turned, and saw Oddi on the dock.
“You are leaving us?” Oddi asked. “That was ill done.”
“I did what I could,” said Ragnvald curtly.
“I meant my father and Harald. I’ve no mind to follow either of them right now.”
“I cannot help you. I leave on the next tide.”
“All alone? To retake your Ardal? Why do that, when men here would follow you?” He looked away. “When I would follow you?”
“I cannot be your escape from your father’s court anymore,” said Ragnvald. “I will win Ardal, and be a farmer.”
“You will be more than that.”
Ragnvald shivered in the damp evening air. It sounded like a curse. “What men?” he asked.
“Dagvith, of course,” said Oddi. He named other men, from both Hakon and Harald’s camps. Men with whom Ragnvald had sparred and bled. “They are not filled with admiration for Harald and Hakon now either. You do them a disservice to leave them behind.”
The scar on Ragnvald’s hand ached. Ronhild had scolded him, as he lay recovering, for not telling anyone about it, for pridefully enduring alone. He wanted to be gone, but it warmed him that Oddi and others might want to fight by his side.
“Then I shall not,” said Ragnvald. “What—how should I ask them?”
Oddi laughed. “I already asked them for you. Delay for a few hours, and you shall have twenty men, in the ship my father gave me, ready to take Ardal with you.”
* * *
It took nearly a week of sailing to reach the western end of Sogn Fjord. The weather was chill and threatening, but did not impede their cautious progress. Ragnvald kept watch for squalls and other threats while replaying Heming’s trial in his mind. He remembered all of his words as though they had been carved in stone, and each time he imagined saying something different, something that forged peace between Hakon and Harald. Part of him wanted to turn around, to see if he could find a way to make it right, to speak some of the better speeches he had since composed. Then he thought of Harald telling him to go, and it fed the anger that drove him north.
Oddi was the ablest pilot of the group, and he grew worn and nervous as the days passed. They beached the ship to camp each night on sheltered islands, well before nightfall.
The last night, they camped on the rocky beach that sloped up toward the lakes and hills of Ardal. Ragnvald looked around. It soothed his eyes to rest on hills whose contours he knew so well, where every path that cut over mountain and field had known his feet before. He glanced at his men, still disbelieving his fortune that they had chosen to accompany him and Oddi. Oddi was the type that made friends easily. Ragnvald was even more grateful for that now.
Some he had not known well; he had only learned more of them over the journey. They were independent-minded, all of them, and had not liked the way Harald and Hakon had dealt with Ragnvald. He remembered them for deeds of bravery in Hordaland, and many had further stories to their names that they shared on the voyage.
“Olaf has few men to defend him,” said Ragnvald to the men after they had eaten. “A dozen farmers’ younger sons, who have picked up a hoe far more often than they’ve picked up a blade.” This drew some appreciative chuckles.
Ragnvald described the layout of Ardal, using rocks on the ground to indicate buildings. He did not voice his fear that Solvi might have sent reinforcements to Olaf.
“They won’t be prepared to fight, and most of them like me better. The only kin he has is his son Sigurd.” Ragnvald tried to picture Sigurd’s face, at the other end of his sword, and could only call to memory his shock of blond hair, his slouching posture. “Sigurd is no swordsman, and I don’t want him killed. Unless he insists.” His last words were almost drowned out by the sound of the surf on the shore rocks. Ragnvald cleared his throat and spoke louder. “A half day’s walk, fifteen minutes of fighting, and then a night of feasting. Sleep well tonight, so you are rested for the celebration.”
“You want Olaf for yourself, I remember,” said Dagvith, the fair, friendly giant Ragnvald had met at Yrjar. Ragnvald felt a pleasant, foolish affection for him and all of these men.
“Yes,” said Ragnvald. “I have stomached the memory of his insults for long enough.”
Ragnvald, of course, did not sleep that night. He tossed and turned until Oddi kicked him out of the tent they shared, and then went to sit by the shore, pacing around when he grew cold. When he saw the first gilding of orange in the southern sky, he fed the banked cooking fire back to life, and heated some dried fruit and meat for his men’s breakfast. They ate quickly, and by sunup were tramping across the frozen fields in the valley that led to Ardal.
The path led up a steep slope until they drew even with the tops of the cliffs that lined Sogn Fjord. Below, an overhang hid his ship. Gray clouds scudded across the sky, threatening snow. Though it was early in the season, a few farmers were out in the fields, inspecting fences. They could not have mistaken Ragnvald’s warriors for anything but what they were—men bent on killing and destruction—but none raised an alarm. They watched Ragnvald’s party pass, and then turned back to their labors. Ragnvald resolved that when he ruled these lands again, his tenants would be required to light beacon fires if they saw marauders. Olaf should have known better.
Ragnvald set a harder pace than he should have, eager to meet whatever this day would bring. Sweat dripped down his neck and froze on his back, and he had left the other men far behind him. He waited until they all reached the base of the last small hill that hid them from the hall at Ardal. Then he told them to walk farther apart, so he could call a warning if he walked into a trap.
The farm at Ardal stood still and peaceful in the midmorning light. A plume of smoke issued from the forge—Einar, hard at work—and another from the kitchen. Ragnvald drew his sword.
Ragnvald had so long perfected the practice of avoiding Olaf that he imagined he could sense where Olaf was now. He should be returning from his morning ride on his prize and only stallion, Sleipnir. Ragnvald looked forward to taking the horse from him. A mud track through a snow-covered field showed the path he had followed.
Ragnvald saw no guards. He waited until his men caught up with him again, and whispered to them that they should hide themselves near the stone fence around the yard where Sleipnir’s barn lay. Olaf would return there soon. Instead, they surprised young Svein, one of Olaf’s guards, as he was bringing the carrots and barley Olaf would want to feed Sleipnir when he returned. Svein opened his mouth to sound a warning, but Ragnvald caught him quickly around the neck and clapped a hand over his mouth, wedging his jaw shut with his other forearm so Svein could not bite him.
