Svanhild had always remembered those days with a fierce joy, and measured every other peril against them. She had been so hungry she felt like a wild animal, and feared every night that Scottish tribes might find them and kill them. They had slept in a low tent, making a nest for Eystein between them, the soft noises of Solvi’s sentries keeping watch their lullaby. Each sunrise, Svanhild began the day’s work that kept Solvi and his men fed, and sewed up rents in the sail, while Solvi’s men hunted for a straight tree to serve as a new mast. When they finally set sail again, the preceding misery made their victory all the sweeter.
Now she also recalled that she had held Eystein against her breast every day and found her milk growing thinner, and smelling of the shellfish that was all she had to eat. The memory had become a happy one, but only because she and Eystein had survived. Now Solvi had poisoned that memory too—what if those days, and others, less memorable but still full of hardships, had made Eystein weak now?
“I have been caring for our son,” said Svanhild. “I will eat now that he is better.”
“I would not lose both of you,” said Solvi. “The witch said that this sickness spreads easily. Tell me truly, Svanhild. Is it only hunger or have you become ill as well?” He moved toward her as Svanhild came to her feet. Svanhild held up a hand to warn him off.
“It is only hunger,” she said, standing upright. She held herself still while the spots before her eyes receded.
“Good,” said Solvi. “Be ready to sail tomorrow. The winds and tides will be good for us to depart for Norway.”
“What? We are not going anywhere,” said Svanhild. “He is only now well enough to sit up and venture outside, not to take a sea voyage.”
“I will not argue with you, Svanhild. If my men must bind you and the boy to get you in the ship, we will.” As she scowled, he added, “And do not think of hiding. You can only go to Unna’s. If you go elsewhere, I will make her tell me—and neither she nor her man will enjoy that.”
“If she is a witch as you say, don’t you fear her vengeance?” Svanhild asked angrily.
“Not as much as I fear staying here,” said Solvi. His voice changed, growing desperate. “Svanhild, do not fight me. Can’t you see this is for the best?” He reached out to her again.
“No, it is only for your pride that you want to go back to Tafjord.”
Solvi set his jaw. “Do you want to be bundled on board the ship like a bolt of cloth, or do you want to step onto it with dignity? I have spoken, Svanhild, and I will not argue this further.”
He turned away from her and walked back toward the ship. Svanhild stared after him. She could recall loving him, longing for him, but could not find that emotion within herself now, not after his threats. She could take a bath, comb out her hair, make herself sweet smelling and soft for him, and after rekindling his tenderness, beg him to let her stay. The thought made her feel weary and as old as death. Solvi would do this thing, no matter how much Svanhild protested. He wanted his war, he wanted Svanhild with him, and he had convinced himself that it would be better for Eystein as well.
How could he think of subjecting Eystein to a voyage where the tossing of the ship would make him worse, where he could not drink fresh milk every day unless—yes, Svanhild would insist that they bring a goat for fresh milk. Katla would know which one was young and biddable, and calm enough to give milk even shipboard. But that was giving in to Solvi—she could not let this happen. Eystein would not survive a sea voyage, and what would they find when they reached Tafjord? A hall occupied by one of Harald’s allies, well provisioned, with an army to defend him. She and Eystein would live in a camp in the woods all winter rather than a snug hall.
She said as much to Solvi when he returned and found that she had done no packing, only combed out her hair and tucked Eystein, full of bread and honey, back into bed. Solvi sat down on their bed and pulled her onto his lap. He was clean and well dressed, as if unaffected by all that Svanhild had gone through at Eystein’s side these past days. Svanhild touched his cheek, running her thumb along the soft fur of his beard.
“Can we not stay?” she asked simply. How could this man have become her enemy so quickly?
“I believe Ulfarr has already taken Tafjord,” Solvi replied. “And it is too late in the year for Harald to bring war against him. By the time the winter comes, we will be well provisioned there, and defended by the king of Sweden.”
“You are so certain, but Harald has beaten you every time you’ve faced him,” Svanhild cried, standing up and backing away from him.
“One time.” Solvi’s voice grew cold. “Make ready.”
“Ulfarr might be dead,” Svanhild suggested. “A sea journey could kill us all.” Solvi would not be drawn into an argument, though. Svanhild might escape him for a time, but not with Eystein in tow. Her son could not travel quickly over land, and his sickness would frighten anyone who might give them shelter. She packed without thinking, her hands guided by the practice of years. If she refused to pack, Solvi would only send his men to do it, and tie her up as he promised—and whoever packed hers and Eystein’s things might forget something that could mean the difference between life and death on the open sea.
The next morning, when they were to leave, as Svanhild handed Solvi his breakfast of porridge, she said, “I wish to say good-bye to Unna. If you want to prevent me, you can tie me up now.” She proffered her wrists toward him, and looked at his hands, callused by hauling on a ship’s lines, his joints thickened by cold nights at sea.
“Svanhild,” he said, his voice pleading, “you will see this is right.”
She wanted to scream at him. What will you give me if you are wrong? Will you give me another son? “Are you going to tie me up or not, husband?” she asked, still holding her wrists out. “Or may I speak to my friend?”
“Take Thorstein with you,” said Solvi.
“If either of us deserves this little trust, it is you,” she replied.
The air up on the slopes where Unna lived chilled Svanhild’s nose, a bite of winter, which came early to Iceland, even earlier than in the mountains of Norway. A light frost left its crystals on the tops of the grass.
Unna gave her a warm smile that sat awkwardly on her severe features. “I am sorry I spoke so harshly to you about your son.” She held her arms open for Svanhild’s embrace.
Svanhild accepted the contact gladly, and found herself crying against Unna’s shoulder for a long moment, tears whose source was a well of hopelessness she could not drain, though Unna’s pats on her back did give her a moment of peace.
“I thought you did not apologize,” said Svanhild, wiping her eyes on her sleeves.
“Donall has told me that I should, and he is usually right about these things,” said Unna.
“I wanted to say good-bye. You have been good to me, no matter what Solvi has said to Ingolfur or the other settlers.”
“He can do little damage to me,” said Unna. “The people here trust me more than they do him. They know I will stay, and that my magics will help them in hard times. What do they know of him? That he will take advantage of their hospitality and be gone before he can be asked to return it?”
Svanhild felt an urge to defend Solvi that came more from habit than true conviction. “We will give you hospitality in Tafjord,” she said.
“Will you?” Unna asked, returning to her customary brusqueness. “I was born in Scotland and would have stayed if there had been anything for me. Norway is nothing to me.”
“Nonetheless, if you come, you will be welcome.”
Unna pressed her lips together and gave Svanhild another quick hug. “And you will be welcome here,” she said. “I will never begrudge you hospitality. I will guard your land as if it is my own.”
“If I return, I will make a fair arrangement for it,” Svanhild said. Perhaps Unna could keep it until her death, and then will it to Eystein, for she had no living children of her own.
“Be safe and brave and free,” said Unn
a, a blessing said sometimes by wives sending their warrior husbands off to battle. Svanhild smiled sadly. She was Solvi’s captive, her battle already lost, bound to defeat by marriage and by her son.
The ship set off from the harbor, and the black and white bulk of Iceland retreated into the distance. In the past, sailing away at Solvi’s side had always filled her with hope; now she had left her hopes for Eystein behind in the land she had claimed.
13
Hilda edged around the room Harald had given to her and Ragnvald in Nidaros. Heavy curtains divided it from the rest of the living hall. A soapstone lamp full of oil spilled a rich scent along with its light over the bed. A private space, even one barely bigger than the down-filled mattress on its raised platform, was a luxury that surely no other king in all of the Norse lands could boast for his guests. When Harald came to Nidaros, she and Ragnvald gave up their room to him. Harald could provide a king’s chamber for all of his important visitors.
“Surely Nidaros must rival Constantinople,” she said to Ragnvald, who was putting on a homespun shirt. She examined the fine carvings on the bedstead, the silver mirror resting on the table next to a comb of walrus ivory. She touched the gold on the comb’s spine lightly. Ragnvald had given her treasures that approached these, gifts from his plunder to mark the birth and first tooth of each of her sons, and she guarded them jealously. Harald’s wives had set these prizes out the way Hilda might give a guest a ewer of water at her bedside.
“I am told Constantinople is far bigger,” said Ragnvald.
“I cannot imagine.” Hilda touched a silver hair clasp inlaid with blue and red enamel. “There are so many buildings and people here.”
“Harald would have it larger. It may one day rival Dublin. Even that is bigger, though much dirtier.” Ragnvald moved closer to her so she backed up with her legs against the bed frame. “Should I take you there someday?” he asked.
The luxury of this room was such that they might indulge in midday lovemaking. She wished to pull him to her, to welcome him into her as she had not since his return home. It troubled him, she knew, to show his care for her, his desire for her, and to have it rebuffed.
“No,” said Hilda softly. “I am content at home.” She swallowed and put her hand on his chest, though without the pressure to push him away. “I do not know why Harald needs so many people together in one place. How can he feed them all?”
“He buys food or takes it in taxes from the districts, and the men and women who live here are artisans who can ply their craft all day long,” said Ragnvald.
“It cannot be safe. What if there is a fire among all these buildings?” She stretched out her fingers again and this time Ragnvald covered her hand with his. If he pressed her now, she would yield to him, and then sleep the day away. If her life were as easy as a Nidaros woman’s, perhaps she would not dread bearing endless children.
“I’m sure it is as safe as anywhere else.” Ragnvald sounded impatient. “Ask a thrall where the women’s chambers are. You can meet Harald’s wives and see their handwork.” He patted her hand and then let it go.
“I don’t know,” said Hilda. “They can invite me if they wish.”
“Why all this fear? You were brave enough when Atli came to Sogn.”
Hilda could not meet his eyes. She had not told him that she had given up and hoped for death, even before Atli’s man hit her. He liked to think of her as brave. She was spared from making any reply by Ivar rushing into the room, followed by Einar.
“They have the littlest ponies, Mother,” Ivar cried, “and they said we could ride them. Can we? Can we?”
Ivar bounced on his feet, and Ragnvald caught him up in his arms. “I’m surprised you even asked,” Ragnvald said.
“King Harald said we must,” said Ivar.
“He said—he requests that you join him in the practice yard,” said Einar to his father.
“Very well. I shall join him.” He echoed Einar’s formality. “Meet the women,” he said to Hilda. “Perhaps we can find a new waiting-woman for you.”
Ivar tugged on Ragnvald’s trousers. “Come on, Father.”
“King Harald is waiting,” said Einar.
“As are the ponies.” Ragnvald nodded farewell to her.
Freed even from her family’s company, Hilda sat down on the bed. Ragnvald would want to know that she had met the other women, the wives and daughters of kings. They could not be so different from her. They would still embroider fabric, weave on cards—of ivory, not wood, with silken thread, not woolen—even spin, perhaps. Hilda had brought her spindle and a sack of finest black lamb’s wool to spin into yarn for a cloak for Ragnvald. He avoided the bright colors that some of his fellow kings wore, especially on his summer battle excursions. He had praised the cloak she made him for a wedding gift, which hid him against dark tree trunks, and had worn it threadbare.
Hilda walked outside and quickly became lost among all of the buildings. On a fine day like this, she thought the women might sit in the sun, perhaps even near the practice ground so they could watch their men compete. Hilda liked watching Ragnvald, at least when he won with no trouble. She flinched whenever he took a blow, even from a wooden sword.
She rounded the corner of a building and saw Atli. He waved to her, so she could not avoid him. “Hilda Hrolfsdatter!” He swept a bow, so deep that it seemed mocking. “How do you like Nidaros?”
Everyone asked her that and she did not know what they wanted to hear from her—probably praise of Harald. “It is big,” she said.
“So it is,” said Atli. “Not as welcoming as your cozy hall at Sogn.”
As often with Atli, she could not tell if he insulted her or not. “It is much finer,” she said. “I had thought to meet some of Harald’s wives, but this place is very confusing.”
“I will show you, my lady.” He walked with her toward another hall, as new and gleaming as the one that held her bedroom. As Atli took her elbow to help her over some uneven ground, a woman came toward them, clad in a fine brown overdress that set off the blue of her shift and the honey of her hair. Hilda wondered if she could wear those colors—the simplicity might suit her better than patterned silks. The woman pulled her hair over her shoulder in a very familiar way, and Hilda realized, with a feeling of helplessness, that this was Vigdis. Hilda hoped never to see her again after she left Sogn. But of course Vigdis would find her way to this concentration of powerful men, rather than end her days alone in the mountains.
Vigdis looked at Hilda and then at Atli and then nodded at both of them as Atli swept a bow neither as deep nor slow as the one he had given Hilda. Hilda wanted to look away. Sharing Ragnvald had always made her feel uncomfortably intimate with Vigdis, as though Vigdis had looked upon Hilda’s nakedness. Vigdis’s eyes seemed to catch on Atli, then on Hilda, and Hilda had a flash of intuition: there was something between these two connivers, something both of them wanted hidden, that augured ill for Ragnvald.
Hilda moved to block Vigdis’s path, forcing her to a halt. “Vigdis Hallbjornsdatter,” Hilda said, inclining her head politely. “I am so glad that you have found another protector in Atli Kolbrandsson. And now you wish for him to have Sogn so you can return to the site of your former triumphs. It is a compliment to my home that you liked it so much.”
Vigdis glanced at Atli, and then back to Hilda. Hilda bared her teeth slightly, waiting for Vigdis’s response. The smile Vigdis gave her in return was warm and false, one that Hilda remembered well from her welcome home to Sogn after her wedding to Ragnvald. Vigdis had put her hands over her pregnant belly, swelling with Ragnvald’s son, and smiled in just this way.
“Yes,” said Vigdis simply. Hilda would have preferred to watch Vigdis flounder, but she had still won her victory in that admission.
“My dear,” said Atli, “Hilda is looking for the other women. Can you please show her where you are sitting today?”
“Of course,” said Vigdis. She offered her arm to Hilda, who looked at it until Vigdis let
it fall to her side again. “Follow me.”
Ragnvald had come to marry Hilda even before he let Harald make him king of Sogn. Hilda had been dazzled by his gold and his friendship with the most important man in Norway, until they returned to Sogn and she found Vigdis pregnant. She had denied him her bed in anger on that first night in Sogn, and he had punished her by seeking Vigdis’s every night after that. At least he had made Hilda pregnant before they left her father’s house, and once the pregnancy began to show, Hilda found her voice. “It is wrong,” she had said. “She is your stepmother.”
“It would be wrong if I married her,” said Ragnvald. “But she can be my concubine. My stepfather married her young.”
“It is incest,” said Hilda.
“We share no blood. She and my mother had the misfortune to share a husband, that is all.”
By his scowl, Hilda knew he agreed with her, at least a little—it was wrong, and he was ashamed. “If my child is a boy, promise me you will send her away,” Hilda said.
“If your child is a boy,” Ragnvald promised, “I will get rid of Vigdis.” And he had done it. By the time he set a sword in Hilda’s lap to welcome Ivar, two of his men were escorting Vigdis into the mountains where her father lived. Now she was back, to reopen a wound that had hardly healed between them, and use Atli to do it.
Hilda walked a half step behind Vigdis between two smaller buildings. The years had treated Vigdis far too well: her waist slimmer than when Hilda had seen her last, when she was still recovering from Einar’s birth. Hilda felt like a solid old heifer next to a doe, wild and lovely, glimpsed in a spring forest. Ragnvald would think so too; he might hate Vigdis for taking up with Atli, but his eyes would follow her everywhere, and when they did not, his body would still be turned toward her. It had been that way at Sogn as well.
* * *
Ragnvald followed Einar through the hall’s warren of chambers. Curtains made up the walls between them, and Ivar, still held against Ragnvald’s chest, laughed when they brushed against him. A few clay lamps hung from the ceiling, burning whale oil and casting their light and shadows over the hangings. He emerged at the rear of the building, where a fenced-in field held six hairy ponies whose backs were no higher than Ragnvald’s hip.
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