The Half-Drowned King, page 9
* * *
When Ragnvald approached Olaf’s camp, Svanhild was propping up stones around the base of the spit where her pot hung. She had all her attention focused on the task, wedging the stones tight with dirty hands, so Ragnvald was able to draw close before she looked up and saw him. She sprang to her feet. Her scarf fell forward as she rushed toward him. He lifted her up as she flung her arms around him, feeling like now he might weep for everything that had happened since he had seen her last.
When he set her down, she still clung to him. “Ragnvald,” she said. “Egil said you were—and Ol—everyone—they—”
“I know,” he said. “Not here.”
“Ragnvald,” said Vigdis, who appeared suddenly behind Svanhild, with Olaf only a step behind her. It had been many months since he had seen her too, and the beauty he had remembered was nothing to seeing her in truth. She gave him a considering look, and as always, it felt as though they stood together, alone, for a moment. His face heated. He had to force himself to look at Olaf instead.
“We are glad to hear that Egil’s news was mistaken. You will stay with us, of course,” Olaf said. His eyes were stony and gray.
Ragnvald steeled himself for more words, of how he had failed by coming back empty-handed, wounded. “I am staying with others for now,” he said, now feeling as cold as Olaf looked. “But your welcome is appreciated.”
“We must talk,” said Svanhild.
“Svanhild, your help is needed to set up the camp,” said Olaf.
“I thought he was dead,” said Svanhild, accusingly. “Vigdis, you can spare me, can’t you?”
“Of course,” said Vigdis. “Dear husband, I can manage without the girl for an afternoon.” Vigdis disappeared back into the tent. Olaf gave Ragnvald another challenging look, then shrugged and set out across the field toward a neighbor’s camp.
“Olaf didn’t mean for you to return,” Svanhild said as soon as they were alone. “It looks like he almost succeeded.” She reached up to touch his cheek. He caught her hand before she could touch where Hilda’s fingers had been earlier.
“He didn’t? How do you—are you sure?” She began to answer, and Ragnvald shook his head. He felt exposed, suddenly, here on the open plain. “Come,” he said. “Let us walk.” He guided Svanhild toward the sacrifice grove. Fallen logs hewn into rough benches lined the pit. It was cooler between the dark trunks of the pines, and smelled like rich soil. So Olaf wanted him dead. Olaf, who was friends with King Hunthiof, who had suggested that Ragnvald go off in Solvi’s ships. It gave a reason for Solvi’s attack when Ragnvald could think of none before. There had always been rumors that Olaf had killed Ragnvald’s father too, rumors that his mother told him not to heed. He had believed them when it suited him as a boy, when he hated Olaf for disciplining him, for holding him back, for not being his father.
“How do you know?” he asked. “Are you sure?”
“Yes,” said Svanhild. “Tell me what happened.”
They sat, and Ragnvald told her of Solvi’s attack, leaving aside his vision of the golden wolf. Svanhild would either make too much of it or too little. He had repeated the tale so often in the past few days that it had settled into certain scenes in his mind. He tried to find the words to make it real for her.
In return she told him what she suspected, and how Einar, Sigurd, and even their mother had confirmed it, each in their turn. He tried to imagine his mother’s reaction, how she would react, but he could only see the anger on Svanhild’s face before him.
“What did she say?” Ragnvald asked.
“You know her,” said Svanhild heavily. “She is dull and vague, as she has ever been. Don’t worry about her. She is not here. Are you going to accuse him?”
Olaf wanted him dead, and had paid or prompted his friend King Hunthiof to make it happen. His stepfather, who had raised him as much as his own father had.
“I don’t know,” he said. Between the tree branches, the sunlight still gleamed, but too far away for any warmth to reach the grove.
“I will speak for you,” she said.
“You can’t.” His voice sounded distant to his ears, as though filtered through water. “‘A woman may only give testimony if no man can be found.’ Or ‘can be brought to witness.’ I don’t remember. ‘No man below the age of eighteen may . . .’” He had attended the trials as a boy, with his father, and had memorized long passages of the law in hopes of one day dealing out his own justice. Only tatters remained.
“There is no man to testify,” she insisted.
“You said Sigurd knows, and he is here.”
She scoffed. “You know he will not.”
“You have no real words that you can swear to, only rumors. And you are a woman.”
“You don’t need me, though,” said Svanhild. “At least not to accuse Solvi. Egil saw the whole thing.”
Ragnvald sprang to his feet. “He told you?”
“Yes,” said Svanhild. She stood as well, brushing off her seat.
“He won’t testify for me, and I can’t trust any of Solvi’s men to stand for me.”
“What? Why not?” Svanhild cried. Then Ragnvald had to tell her that as well.
“What will you do?” Svanhild asked.
“You cannot be my witness, but you can remind Egil what he told you, and shame him into testifying. Come with me to Hrolf’s camp.”
* * *
“I said that,” said Egil. He had emptied a quiver of arrows on the ground, and was inspecting the fletching on each one, to make sure it would fly true in the archery contest tomorrow.
“Yes, you said that.” Svanhild stood over him, hands on her hips.
“Would you like to call me a coward again?” said Egil to Ragnvald, ignoring her. “I tried to help you.”
“You are a coward,” said Svanhild.
Egil flinched. “I want to live,” he said. “Solvi does not forgive betrayal.”
“But he has no trouble dealing in it,” Ragnvald muttered. Then to Egil: “If you have no care about being called a coward in private, perhaps you will not want to be called that publicly.”
Egil’s jaw tightened. He would not meet Ragnvald’s gaze. Ragnvald said to Svanhild, “If my friend Egil continues to lie, I will call you as a witness. But Solvi may call you a liar, or Olaf.”
Svanhild lifted her chin. “Let him. I am not afraid of him.”
“Please,” said Egil softly. He bent over to gather his arrows in, so they would not be trampled by his or Svanhild’s feet. “I will talk to my father. I will testify if I can.”
Ragnvald crouched so he could take Egil’s hand. It was hardly a firm commitment, but if Ragnvald treated it that way, Egil might as well.
“Your sister is still my betrothed, and you are my sworn brother. I would do no less for you.”
Egil gave him a smile that might be a wince. “We were not men when we swore that.”
“Do you think the gods care about that?” In tales, oaths like theirs always lasted for eternity, though Ragnvald had already seen how rarely that happened in life. Most oaths had the threat of blood or promise of gold keeping them strong. Or the certainty of shame, which was what Ragnvald could offer Egil.
Egil did not answer, but he did take Ragnvald’s hand, and lean into an embrace with their shoulders touching.
“I will see you at the sacrifice tonight,” Ragnvald said to Egil. Perhaps feeling the gods’ eyes upon him there would give Egil more strength.
* * *
As Ragnvald walked Svanhild slowly back toward Olaf’s booth, she put her hand in his, as they had done as children. “Do you think he will do it?” she asked. “That he will testify?”
Ragnvald sighed. “I don’t know. I think he wants to.”
“I don’t think Olaf will give up our father’s land without you killing him,” she said next. Her mind ran quickly from one subject to another. Ragnvald had been more used to that when they were together every day, when he could anticipate her words before she said them. He had not yet thought fully of what Olaf’s involvement might mean, except that he had no proof, and that saved him from having to accuse Olaf in front of everyone.
“I could do that,” said Ragnvald, though he did not believe it. “He is old.” Not old enough to be sure, though. Duels were chancy things, and Olaf had already shown his willingness to cheat.
“Truly?” Svanhild asked. “He raised us.”
“I killed for less reason in Ireland,” he said quietly. That much at least was true. “I think I could.” If Olaf were someone else. “He is a strong warrior, though. I would rather he only gave me what he promised.”
“You could hire onto another raiding ship,” said Svanhild. “Or one of the settlement ships bound for Iceland. I have heard there is land for the taking. A strong man can be a lord there.”
“I was supposed to be a lord here,” said Ragnvald. “Svanhild, if you do not want to testify, I can—”
“I do,” said Svanhild. “Only I thought you were dead. I don’t want it to become true. What is there for us here? Sogn is crowded with farmers, old feuds, old blood, there are raiders every summer. I have heard of new land. You could take Hilda there. And me too.”
“Ardal’s soil is richer than any icy land,” said Ragnvald, though he had no true idea. He had heard the stories, as Svanhild had, of this Iceland, with its fiery mountains and broad fields, glaciers so high that clouds swallowed them, danger and opportunity. But he felt too the tug of Ardal in his blood, his father’s bones, his grandfather’s, the line of kings stretching back to the gods themselves. “This is home, Svanhild. It is mine, and I will take it back, for our family.”
“You were almost killed,” Svanhild said. “You know as I do that trials are usually decided for the richest man, not the right man. And I want to see new lands. We talked of it once.”
“All I have is what you see me wearing,” Ragnvald said, wishing she had not made him speak this. “Solvi even has half my armor, left in his ship. I have less than when Olaf sent me out. So no, I will not hire onto a new ship and take you on an adventure. The only way forward is to get what is mine.”
He tried to talk to her of lighter things, but she did not seem to have the heart for it, and neither did he, so he led her back to Olaf’s camp. She told him, as they walked, that Thorkell had come, asking for her hand, and that was how she had come here. Thorkell had traveled with them to the gathering, though with his own family, which kept him busy and away from Svanhild.
“I had thought to run away from the ting,” she said. “But now you are alive.”
* * *
When the sun dipped below the horizon, King Hakon led a procession to the pine grove for the sacrifices. At midsummer, this dark would not last long. Ragnvald found a place near Hilda and her family. Hrolf pretended not to notice him, but Egil made a space so Ragnvald could stand behind Hilda. Ragnvald caught her hand in his before the sacrifices began, feeling pleasantly foolish, the heat and pressure of her hand far more real to him than the sounds of the ceremony.
Across the circle, Olaf stood with Vigdis at his side, the firelight making her golden hair crimson. Ragnvald glanced away from her just as her eyes seemed about to find his. He did not want to think of Vigdis’s beauty, her promising smiles, when he stood so close to Hilda. Next to Olaf and Vigdis stood Sigurd, looking queasy at the sight of the blood. Svanhild held herself a little to the side, standing cross with her arms folded. Even she did not support him as much as he wished.
A drum sounded, slower, coming from somewhere outside the circle of torchlight. King Hakon stepped forward. He wore simple homespun, not dyed, meant to show the sacrifice blood when it spilled. He spoke the ritual words to thank the gods for midsummer, for good weather, and good raiding. He asked them for rich harvests and successful raids and then raised the ax above his head and waited. His arms did not shake, although Ragnvald’s ached in sympathy, as the thralls pulled the first sheep into position. Hakon was of an age with Olaf, broad and well fed, with thick blond eyebrows, and smile lines around his mouth. He must not have had cause to fight for some time, for he wore his beard long and braided, with gold rings glinting in the gray and flaxen hair. Had Hakon not attended, Olaf or Hrolf would have made the sacrifices and said the blessings. Or Hunthiof, but he had not come either. Hakon’s show of power and wealth shifted the balance of power here, like a ship heeled over by the wind.
Finally Hakon brought the ax down on the neck of the first sheep, which died with a great gout of blood, and no sound. A goat and a cow followed afterward, these screaming and whining as they saw their fellows’ blood. Hilda watched without turning her head, or moving, although her fingers tightened on Ragnvald’s.
A pair of thralls pulled a reluctant ox into the pit. It stamped and snorted, scenting the blood of the other sacrifices, and pawed the ground. But the thralls had the trick of drawing it forward, alternately cajoling and beating it with switches. King Hakon’s ax descended again. Blood stained his face and arms red. It dripped from his beard and the ends of his hair, and he looked like one of Odin’s berserk warriors from an old tale.
When the bull finally crashed to earth, Hakon raised his hands to the sky, and spoke the last ritual words, ending the sacrifices for this midsummer. No slaves this year—the year-turning sacrifices needed only farm animals, eating animals. The gods Frey and Freya did not relish wasteful bloodshed. Thralls removed the animals from the sacrifice pit and brought them to the great cooking troughs. They would bake under hot coals all during the next day, and the next night the great feast would cover the whole of Jostedal’s rocky plain.
When Hakon finished the sacrifices, he spoke more words of supplication to Thor and to the siblings Frey and Freya, who brought fertility to the fields, the gentle rains that would quicken the seed already sown this spring. His servants filled vast horns with ale, and Hakon blessed each one before passing it around the circle. As each man and woman drank, they whispered their own wishes for the rest of the year, some to themselves, others sharing tender words with those who stood close.
Ragnvald closed his eyes. He knew he should wish for success at the trials and Hilda’s hand, but all he could think of was Olaf’s death, if he could truly do that, when it became necessary. He drank, the smell of sacrifice blood making the ale taste sour, and said “Sogn” for no one’s ears but his own. When the horns returned to him, Hakon took a mighty draught from one and roared triumphantly. The firelight made his hair gold. Perhaps this was Ragnvald’s golden wolf.
Hakon called out to Odin-Alfather, speaking of slain men and corpses still to be made. A wind stirred the oak leaves overhead, and his gaze seemed to meet Ragnvald’s. Blood coated his hands, and one of his eyes was in shadow. On this night, midsummer, the veil between the world of the gods and that of humans was thin. For a moment, Ragnvald could not feel Hilda’s hand in his. He quailed inside—Odin’s notice was a fearful thing; his heroes died young, and painfully. But Odin was the god of battle and wisdom, trickery and kingcraft. Ragnvald had need of his magic, whatever the cost. He held the gaze of Hakon-as-Odin until the king turned his head, and that fearful attention moved on.
8
The next morning, Svanhild waited outside Olaf’s tent, wishing Ragnvald would visit again. He might bring her to the games and races, so she could get away from Vigdis for a time, and see the excitement. Or they could go off and talk more. She had not heard anything of his travels besides their end.
From afar, she could see two young men sparring with wooden swords, both tall, comely, and evenly matched. She watched them until Vigdis scolded her for lechery and bid her clean up from breakfast.
She looked up when she heard the horses approaching. Four men rode across the plain, mounted on horses with shaggy coats like fjord ponies, but the height and longer manes of some southern breed. Each man was a warrior. Their chests were encased in worn leather armor, and they wore marks of their skill in glints of gold at shoulder, wrist, and belt. Even the horses’ bridles and stirrups showed some flashes of metal. The horses snapped at each other as they cantered, and sidled when they jostled into each other. Perhaps these were meant for the horse fights tomorrow, an event forbidden to women, though Svanhild intended to find a way to watch.
She thought they looked like something out of a tale until they came closer and she saw that one of them was old, and another had a face from a nightmare, mouth broken and poorly healed, as though it had been cloven with an ax. The foremost man, though, had clear and even features—he could still be a saga hero.
“Is your father within, young maiden?” asked the lead rider as he pulled his horse to a stop. Seeing him up close, Svanhild thought she had never seen a more handsome man, with his close-trimmed beard, the same golden red as the amber that inlaid his cloak’s clasp, and his flashing, knife-edge smile.
“He’s in a barrow,” said Svanhild, standing. She shook out her hair. She had brushed it until it shone this morning, leaving it loose under the white of a narrow cloth band, and she was glad of it now, for the man’s eyes followed it as it swayed behind her and curled around her hips. “If you seek my stepfather Olaf, I know not where he is.”
“What is your name?” he asked.
“Svanhild Eysteinsdatter,” she answered. One of the warriors’ horses stamped impatiently. A shadow passed briefly over the man’s face before the grin reappeared.
“A lovely name for a lovely woman,” he said.
Svanhild waved off the compliment. “If you know mine, I should know yours,” she said.
“Try to guess it,” he replied, grin turning wicked.
“How shall I guess it?” she asked, tossing her hair again, glad to be invited to look him over from head to foot. “You have missed the sacrifices, so I think you do not care much for gods, and you are not from Sogn. You wear a fine sword at your belt and cut your beard close like a warrior, but there are many rich warriors in Norway. You have not enough men with you to be a king or jarl.”
“Do I not?” he asked, his eyes sparkling. “Come ride with me, and I will tell you more.”
