Harald stood at the fence, talking with the ponies’ handler. Next to the ponies, Harald looked even more like a giant, his tangled blond hair providing its own sunlight against the overcast sky.
“He breeds them small for children,” said Harald. “Makes me wish I was a boy again.”
“You could never have been small enough to ride them,” said Ragnvald. He pushed his sons toward the open gate. The handler let Ivar and Einar into the paddock, and whistled for the ponies. He set Ivar on a white one, and would have helped Einar onto a dappled gray, but Einar wrapped his arms around the pony’s neck and swung up onto it himself, giving the man a defiant look. The ponies walked gently at the handler’s urging, making a slow circle around the inside of the fence. When he saw that the boys could stay on, he gave a low whistle and the ponies picked up speed.
Ragnvald heard a rush of chatter behind him and was almost bowled over by a gaggle of larger boys. They climbed the fence quickly, and began running after the loose ponies, trying to frighten them. Their minder looked at Harald, who smiled and shrugged. All of the boys were tall and a few years older than Ragnvald’s sons. Ragnvald saw Harald’s wide-set eyes and big, prominent teeth, crowded on these smaller faces.
“Your sons,” said Ragnvald.
Harald grinned. “Yes, they’re all mine.” He had been making sons far longer than Ragnvald—since his fourteenth year, with half of the noble daughters of Norway.
“Are you trying to breed up an army all by yourself?” Ragnvald asked.
“I want as many sons as Odin,” said Harald. “I never had brothers. I want my sons to lack for nothing. Not kin or anything else.”
“Sometimes fewer brothers may be better,” said Ragnvald, thinking of Hakon’s brood. Then, to change the subject: “I brought furs from the Keel for you for taxes. Sogn has returned to self-sufficiency, but is not producing surplus yet.”
Harald waved his hand to interrupt Ragnvald. “You are more useful to me in battle than as a Sogn farmer.”
“Sogn will be able to pay you full taxes in a year or two, but I know you do not want to starve us,” said Ragnvald.
Harald turned away from the chaos of boys and ponies in the paddock. “You fret over nothing, my friend,” he said. “You bring me land and new kings to pay me taxes every time we ride to battle together. I cannot forgive your taxes without inviting excuses from every king in Norway, but you may wait until these boys have white in their beards before you pay them.”
Ragnvald leaned on the fence, feeling the same mixture of shame and pleasure as he did when Harald praised him for deeds of which he could not be proud, like the burning of Vemund’s hall. In the paddock, Ivar and Einar had both kept their seats, though their mounts skittered nervously as the other ponies, frightened by Harald’s sons, jostled around them. The tallest grabbed the tail of Ivar’s pony. It spun around, nipping, and tossed Ivar into the dirt. Ragnvald started forward, ready to break this up.
“You should let them settle their own business,” said Harald.
With five of Harald’s sons to his two, Ragnvald hardly thought this an even match, but he did not want to make his sons look weak by intervening. Einar slid off his pony and ran toward Ivar, putting himself between Ivar and the other boys. The largest of Harald’s sons stood in the fore. This was Halfdan Kvite, red-haired and ill-tempered, Harald’s big features raw and unfinished on his boy’s face.
Einar, two years younger and a head shorter, snarled at Halfdan. “Fight me first,” he said. “I’ll fight any of you.”
Harald nodded approvingly. Halfdan rushed toward Einar, and shoved him in the chest, knocking him over. Harald’s other sons circled him, hiding Ragnvald’s sons from his view. His face heated with anger. King or no, Ragnvald would not let his sons be beaten while he stood by.
“Halfdan, one at a time,” Harald yelled, bringing Ragnvald back to his senses. “Only a coward hits a man when he’s down.” Halfdan gave his father a sullen look. He pushed his brothers away so Ragnvald could see Einar standing and brushing dirt off his clothes. Ivar waited uncertainly behind him.
“Try that again,” said Einar.
“Let your little brother fight,” said one of the other boys, this one black-haired and with the tilted eyes of the upland families.
“No,” said Einar. “You beat me, then you can fight him.”
“I already did,” said Halfdan.
“You pushed me. You didn’t beat me,” said Einar. His self-possession was unsettling in a boy so young, but Ragnvald had to admire the purity of his will.
Halfdan rushed Einar again, and this time Einar flung a handful of dirt from the practice ground into his eyes. As Halfdan tried to brush off his face, Einar grabbed his shoulders and kneed him hard in the crotch. The boy screamed and collapsed. Einar pulled Ivar over to the fence and helped him over it, onto safe ground between Ragnvald and Harald.
“He can fight,” said Harald approvingly, though with an unsteady laugh. “This is Vigdis’s son?”
Ragnvald nodded. The boy had fought viciously, in a way Ragnvald had never taught him. Einar would do anything for Ivar, even if he made himself the target of a similar attack later. In the paddock, Harald’s sons now rode as fast as the tiny, docile beasts would carry them, jostling for the lead. “You let them run wild,” said Ragnvald.
“They are just boys,” said Harald. “There’s no harm in it. They have to learn to fight.”
“They are just boys today,” said Einar.
“Ha,” Harald barked. “I see he is your son and no other’s. I’d wager you were like this at his age. A serious little law-speaker.”
“He is his mother’s son,” said Ragnvald, stung by the comparison. “I don’t think I ever fought like that.”
Harald liked this subject, though. “If you are Einar, who does Ivar resemble? Is he much like your grandfather for whom he is named?”
“I never knew my grandfather. Ivar is Svanhild, perhaps,” Ragnvald said, half to himself. He saw the truth of that comparison more, in Ivar’s beautiful russet hair and deep-set eyes. Ivar was sweet tempered, though, where Svanhild was sharp. Perhaps he was like Svanhild when she was a child, when Ragnvald was still able to protect her. Harald looked carefully at the boy, reminding Ragnvald that he once had hoped for a match between Svanhild and his king.
“I hope he serves you better than Svanhild did you,” said Harald.
“Yes,” Ragnvald agreed. He hoped for that as well. He looked down at Einar, whose face had already begun to purple from the other boy’s blow. “Let us find someone to put a cool cloth on that bruise.”
Einar looked up at him curiously, almost as he had at Halfdan, before that first shove, as if he did not know whether to count his father friend or foe. Ragnvald extended a hand to Einar, who took it gravely, and his other hand to Ivar. He asked for Harald’s leave to go, and Harald waved a hand at him while cheering on his sons as they raced the ponies around the ring.
“You will have to fight those boys again,” said Ragnvald to his sons. “Make some friends here, or stay in my sight unless you want them kicking your balls in.”
Ivar laughed at that. Ragnvald glanced down at Einar, who nodded seriously. “If they do, I will hurt them worse,” he said.
“No, you can defend yourself, but don’t hurt them. They are Harald’s sons,” said Ragnvald. He pushed the kitchen door open.
“What does that matter?” Ivar asked.
Einar peered around Ragnvald to look at his brother. “There are some people who can only hurt you,” he said to Ivar. “You can’t hurt them.”
* * *
The kitchen servants directed Ragnvald to Hilda where she sat with Harald’s wives and the other important women of Nidaros. They sat outside in the afternoon sun on logs rough-hewn into seats, arranged in a double circle. Servants sat in the larger, outer ring ready to wait upon their mistresses. Hands rose and fell as the women teased out fiber between their fingers and let the weight and motion of their spindles tur
n it into yarn. There was a beauty in all of those clever female hands, each with a length of roving wound around her wrist, and the thread held between thumb and forefinger. Ragnvald was loath to interrupt.
Asa Hakonsdatter, Harald’s first wife, saw him first, and wound the yarn onto her spindle before setting it down in a wooden bowl by her side. She was Hakon’s oldest daughter, and had the same sort of beauty as her brother Heming, blond and clear-eyed, with high cheekbones. Ragnvald caught something of Heming’s dissatisfaction in her face as well. Next to her sat Hilda. On seeing Ragnvald she tilted her head slightly toward Vigdis, who was braiding a narrow cord. She must be furious that Vigdis was here, though she covered it well.
“Ragnvald,” said Asa, “we heard yelling, and were wagering what the trouble was.”
“Only some boys fighting.” Ragnvald pushed Einar forward so the women could see the swelling around his eye. “I was looking for Hilda to help tend this.”
Vigdis rose slightly, then sat again. It was her son who had been hurt. Hilda raised her head and gave Ragnvald an opaque look. She too wound the roving carefully around the spindle, set it on her seat, and stepped out from between the chairs. After bending down to look at Einar’s face, she said, “Mafa, please take care of this.”
Mafa, a round brown girl with a long narrow braid down her back, took Ivar and Einar by their hands and led them away. As soon as Ragnvald had walked Hilda out of earshot of the women, he turned to her and said, “I didn’t know she was here.”
“I know,” Hilda replied. She gave Ragnvald a tight smile. “She has become Atli’s mistress. I believe she sent him to Sogn, or at least encouraged him.”
“Truly?” Ragnvald asked, relieved that this was Hilda’s reaction.
Hilda described how Vigdis had come upon them, a note of pride in her voice. “It was something about the way they looked at each other,” she said. “And she did not say anything until I did. I think she would have said something if . . . anyway, she admitted it. I do not know if it can help you to know this, but at least you will not be surprised.”
“That is very good for me to know,” Ragnvald replied. He took her hands in his. “I am glad to have such a clever wife.” He glanced back over his shoulder at Vigdis. She met his eyes briefly, and then laughed and turned to say something to the woman sitting next to her. So Atli had come to Sogn even better informed of Ragnvald’s weaknesses than he had realized. His face grew hot as he imagined Atli lying with Vigdis, laughing at him. She could have revealed anything, from embarrassments in bed to Sigurd’s lax defense of Sogn.
“It would be better if you did not stare at her so. She is a poison. Everything she touches withers. I hate her.” Hilda’s vehemence surprised Ragnvald. She usually spoke to him in such measured tones that he sometimes wished for more passion from her.
“She is a poison, you are right,” Ragnvald agreed. A part of him had always known that, no matter what else came between them. Perhaps at times, as a boy, he had foolishly thought that desire meant affection, but the having of Vigdis erased that illusion. “I do not want you unhappy,” he added.
“I will be as you request, then,” said Hilda. “Happy. Or not unhappy.”
That was not the response Ragnvald wanted. Hilda set traps, much as Vigdis did—Vigdis with her looks, her presence, and Hilda with a mire of words where every step Ragnvald took was wrong. “If I can help in any way, to find you excuses to be away from her, I will,” he said. “That is what I meant. The boys . . .”
Hilda seemed to soften slightly. “Thank you, but no. I can manage her, if you can manage Atli.”
* * *
It was raining steadily the next morning, so Harald held his court in his great hall rather than outside. He had many lamps lit, and the doors flung open to keep it from growing too hot. Sitting before his huge, carven seat posts, his face was cast into darkness whenever he sat back in his chair.
Men had come from the surrounding areas to have justice done, as they did in Ragnvald’s hall, but in far greater numbers here. Women attended as well; Ragnvald saw Vigdis standing near the fire and, as far from her as possible, his own Hilda, her chin higher than other women’s heads. Between them he noted Harald’s upland princess Gyda, her beauty like a knife blade. They had not yet married, for Gyda had said she would not marry him until he had put all of Norway under his rule, causing Harald to swear that he would not cut his hair, nor trim his beard, until then. Harald had gotten a son on Gyda’s sister, though, whom Gyda had adopted to raise as her own.
“How does he have time to do this so often?” Ragnvald muttered to Oddi. Ragnvald had not yet determined what Vigdis’s presence might mean for him, except to put him more on his guard. He and Oddi sat close to Harald, in chairs that flanked the dais. On one side of Harald sat Guthorm, looking as Harald might when he aged forty years, down to the way he leaned on one elbow and rested his temple against his knuckles. On the other side sat Hakon, hiding his impatience poorly.
“The more justice a king gives, the more justice there is to give,” said Oddi dolefully. Ragnvald suspected he quoted a proverb; he had a store of these, and Ragnvald often could not make out whether he meant them in jest or not.
“I will hear the complaints of kings first,” said Harald, breaking through the chatter. “And not too many others. Sitting inside on a day like this is more tiring than any battle.”
The crowd laughed dutifully. Ragnvald looked at Atli, who sat across the hall from him. Ragnvald decided he had no complaint, now that Atli was gone from Sogn. Let him be the first to speak.
“Do any kings have complaint?” Harald asked. “Ragnvald, I think you have a complaint.”
“None,” said Ragnvald. “I am pleased to be here, and ready to forgive any slights against me.”
“I have a complaint,” said King Hakon. Harald’s shoulders sagged slightly and he glanced at Asa, who avoided meeting his eyes. King Hakon was leaving middle age behind, Ragnvald thought, and would soon have to put down his sword, let his sons lead his battles. Hakon and Harald had never become friendly again since Hakon’s son Heming killed Harald’s favorite captain, and Hakon had never warmed again to Ragnvald either after Ragnvald transferred his loyalty to Harald. Hakon still had power, though, and the loyalty of many lesser kings and jarls.
“Very well,” said Harald, and gestured for him to speak.
Hakon walked out into the open floor before Harald’s seat and began to speak. “I have lately returned from the Faroe Islands, where I found Solvi Hunthiofsson treating my land as if it were his own. I do not bring a complaint about this today, though King Harald swore to defend my lands as I defend his. I have a more pressing matter.”
As Harald sat back into the shadows, Ragnvald thought he saw a roll of his eyes.
“You know my son Geirbjorn,” Hakon continued. “He will tell what has passed, and then you may judge.”
Geirbjorn and Ragnvald had been friendly during the brief time when Ragnvald stood high in Hakon’s affections, but of all Hakon’s sons, Ragnvald knew him the least. He was a bird of good camouflage, blending into any company, neither as tall nor handsome as his brother Heming, or as ill-favored as Herlaug was even before his wounding. Now he hesitated before stepping forward and speaking. “My brother Herlaug was grievously wounded in the face by one of Ragnvald Eysteinsson’s men,” he said. He turned to look at his father, who nodded for him to continue. “We ask for this man’s death—”
A commotion interrupted him until Hakon held up his hand for silence. “The man’s death, not King Ragnvald’s,” said Hakon. “Continue, my son.”
“As for the king of Sogn”—this Geirbjorn said with a sneer—“he must make certain that the man’s family pays a penalty.”
“His name is Arnfast,” Oddi called out. “You were once friends.”
Geirbjorn shrugged. Harald sat forward and turned toward Hakon. “Death and a penalty payment—your son must be an important king indeed.”
“Arnfast is an oath bre
aker,” said Geirbjorn. “He used to be my father’s man, and now he is Ragnvald’s.”
“So now you remember his name,” said Harald. “This man whose death you desire—did he swear an oath to your father to serve him for life?”
Geirbjorn glanced at his father, Hakon, who stepped forward to speak. “Arnfast betrayed me to him”—Hakon pointed at Ragnvald—“and Ragnvald of Ardal also turned my son Oddi from his duty to his family. I have held my peace for the sake of King Harald, but now he has done my son Herlaug a terrible injury that has disfigured him for life.”
“I am not aware that you or your family have ever been betrayed by my friend Ragnvald Eysteinsson, king of Sogn,” said Harald. “Who is it you bring suit against today?”
Hakon and Geirbjorn exchanged a few low words with each other. Ragnvald would have found this amusing if it targeted someone other than himself.
“Arnfast,” said Geirbjorn finally. “We bring suit against him for this wound.”
“Shouldn’t Herlaug Hakonsson bring his own suit?” Harald asked.
“My son lies in fever with half his face gone,” said Hakon. “Someone must pay for this. I demand nothing less than death for Arnfast and three measures of gold for his injury.”
“I am sorry for your son’s injury,” said Harald. “A payment is just; death is not. If we would answer injury with death, then let us answer death with death, and condemn your son Heming for the death of my friend Thorbrand.” His voice was cold. A murmur sounded in the hall. The death of Thorbrand in an ill-fated duel with Heming was a subject that Harald had not mentioned publicly since forgiving Heming after the battle of Vestfold. Harald waited for the talk to quiet and turned to Ragnvald. “My friend, you were there at Herlaug’s wounding. Perhaps you can tell us what happened.”
The Sea Queen Page 16