“Don’t fight a giant,” said Ragnvald, giving Oddi a sideways smile. “That is even better advice.”
“Ah, Ragnvald, this is why you are better than me at strategy,” said Harald.
“You don’t need strategy,” said another man to Harald. “Strength and size—”
“King Harald,” said Heming, interrupting. “I have come from Tafjord where Solvi Hunthiofsson’s ships have attacked.”
Harald took a ladle of water from one of his servants and tipped it into his mouth. It spilled over his snarled golden beard, and he shook himself off like a hound. “This is the only tale you ever come to tell me, even when I loaned you warriors and it turned out to be no more than local brigands. I hear that Solvi is in Iceland, and he and his wife have taken land there. Is he in two places at once?”
“It was not him, it was one of his men,” said Heming. “But he used Solvi’s colors and told me Solvi would follow soon after.”
“Solvi Klofe? Solvi the Short?” Harald laughed. “This little man sent his little warriors to plunder your little hall, and you come running to me? Can you take care of nothing for yourself?” Heming’s face went white. Harald baited him often in the years since the death of Thorbrand, and his taunts had been growing worse.
Hakon strode across the grounds to stand behind his son. “I came to see if any of your fine warriors wanted to help,” said Heming, “or if they are better at burning halls than they are at protecting them.” He clenched his fists.
Ragnvald had felt some sympathy for Heming as he bore up under Harald’s taunts. Now he stepped toward Harald, in case Heming’s anger broke into violence. He could disarm Heming with the move that Harald had just demonstrated.
Harald stepped forward to loom over Heming. “When you took Tafjord, you said that you could protect it, you and your father. You descend from the mightiest line of kings in western Norway, as I am always told.” He looked at Hakon. “Why does your father not help you? Why did you come to me?”
“It is for you that Heming holds this land,” said Hakon. “You should help him defend it.”
“I think Heming did not want his father to know of his shame,” said Harald. “He did not expect to find you here.”
“One day, I will fight you,” said Heming. “You cannot insult me forever.”
“I do not want to kill you,” said Harald. “So I withdraw my words—no shame, no dishonor. I am sure your men fought well.”
Heming glanced at Oddi, then down at the ground. “Yes,” he said. “I brought the fight to them in our ships and—well we escaped at least.”
“Yes, thank the gods for that,” said Harald with heavy sarcasm. “I’d rather have you than Tafjord, I suppose. Come before me tomorrow. I have many warriors here. Most of them wished to stay until Yule, but they will grow bored before long, and you are generous to come and share your troubles with us. I will find some willing to fight on your behalf. My servants will give you clean clothes and tend to your wounds.”
Heming nodded his agreement to this and went off with his father. He would surely want a bath; he did not allow himself to look messy for long. Ragnvald watched them go. He worried Harald would provoke Heming and Hakon into war with him before he was ready to face them. A king must control his emotions, not vent them like a petty child, especially if he wanted to rule a land as vast and divided as Norway.
* * *
The following day a fall storm lashed Nidaros, making the practice ground into a mud slick, and hiding the far shore of Trondheim Fjord. Without better prospects for entertainment, Harald decided to hear more cases. Ragnvald suspected Atli had been pressing him, which seemed like a good sign. Ragnvald would win this by showing himself to be entirely indifferent to Atli, so much that he did not even see Atli as a real threat.
The hall was even more crowded than before, since the weather had lured no one outside. Leading women sat in rows near Harald’s high seat, each with handwork in her lap. As soon as Harald sat down, he dispensed with ceremony, and said, “Atli Kolbrandsson, Ragnvald Eysteinsson, I know there is some matter between you. Let us settle it, and quickly.”
“There is no purpose in airing dead grievances,” said Ragnvald. “Atli has quit Sogn, so my quarrel with him is over.”
“Good,” said Harald. “I am done with kings and jarls then. Let me hear some simple disputes between farmers.”
Atli stepped forward. “What Ragnvald Eysteinsson will not say is that he could not hold his land this summer,” he said. “I sailed in and took it with twenty men.”
“Sogn is a land at peace,” said Harald. “What right had you to take it?”
“He did not take it,” said Ragnvald. “He might have kept my seat warm with his unwelcome backside, but that is as far as it went.” Harald smirked.
“I have a claim to Sogn,” said Atli. “And your uncle Guthorm said I should go and guard it.”
Guthorm shifted in his seat, glancing quickly at Ragnvald before turning his eyes to Harald. “I said that if you had a claim you should guard it,” said Guthorm. “Only if.”
“I have not heard of your claim to this land,” said Harald. “You should have told me when you visited before. I am king, not my uncle.” He gave Guthorm a warning look, and Guthorm surprised Ragnvald by shrinking somewhat under it. Guthorm had long led Harald, or at the least they moved as one, like a pair of oxen hitched to a plow.
“My apologies, King Harald,” said Atli with a bow. “I can tell it now.” He stood aside a little, and in a tone for storytelling said, “I heard it from my grandfather.”
“You said that my grandfather killed him, so how did you hear it from him?” Ragnvald asked. “Scattered his bones on my land, you said.”
“Yes,” said Atli, his strange, protruding eyes round and wide, as though he had never thought of speaking anything but truth. “My grandfather came to claim what was rightfully his: the lands of Sogn, and your grandfather Ivar killed him and scattered his bones so his shade can never rest. It was my great-grandfather who was king of Sogn before Ivar came and took it from him. It is known.” His claim had changed, Ragnvald noted, from grandfather to great-grandfather.
“We have a skald here who knows the ancestry of every leading man in the Norse lands,” said Harald. “Perhaps he will know your ancestors.”
“It does not matter,” said Ragnvald. “A king must hold what he would keep.”
“As you did?” Atli asked. “I took your land with twenty men.”
“And here we are again,” said Ragnvald. “You would have lost those men just as quickly had I not stayed my hand. Harald, are you going to listen to this upstart?”
“Upstart?” said Guthorm. “He has twenty years of fighting on you. Ships and swords, experienced warriors and sailors he can call from Dublin, enough to turn the hard-fought battles of this past summer into routs had he been with us. Surely Ragnvald the Wise can see the benefit of that.” The byname stung, as it was meant to. Guthorm only used it when he wished to remind Ragnvald of his youth and lack of experience compared with Guthorm’s many years of battle. “Let us see what this skald has to say,” Guthorm added.
The elderly skald was summoned, and he began his song, naming Ragnvald’s family tree, Ragnvald’s father, Eystein, his father, Ivar, and his father, Halfdan, before him, into the mists of legend, and the loins of the gods. It was a litany Ragnvald knew well and repeated silently along with the skald.
Then he began Atli’s: his father, Kolbrand, his grandfather Asleif before him, from whom Atli had taken his full name, and then his great-grandfather Halfdan.
“It is a common name,” said Ragnvald. But the litany continued, naming the same men as in Ragnvald’s line back to Fjornot the Giant, though at thirty generations back, the skald had skipped a few names to get there.
“You are kin,” said Harald.
A movement caught Ragnvald’s gaze, and he saw Vigdis’s hand curling around the arm of her chair, her body angled forward. He looked at Atli, and then at th
e skald. Something passed between them, a recognition. Gold had changed hands to purchase the skald’s words, Ragnvald would swear to it before the gods. He saw Vigdis’s hand in all of this.
Ragnvald could not swear to it here, though, not without better proof than a glance. “My king,” he said to Harald. “I have sworn to you and you have sworn to me to help me regain my father’s lands. Which you did, and I bless you for it. Would you now strip them from me?” Harald hated nothing more than an oath breaker and would never allow himself to be called one.
“Of course not,” said Harald. Vigdis sat back in her chair.
“I have nothing but reverence for Sogn, and its land, and its people,” said Atli. “Remember, when I came, I did not injure anyone.”
“One of your men beat my wife, Hilda—she can testify to it.”
“And I punished him with death,” said Atli. “I want to protect your family and lands. If I can be of value to Ragnvald while he helps Harald fight his battles, I would be honored. Ragnvald already introduced me and my men to all of the leading farmers of Sogn during the harvest.”
“What?” Ragnvald exclaimed. Atli had pivoted like an expert swordsman.
“I thank you for that excellent introduction to Sogn and its people,” said Atli.
“How can you say no to such a generous offer, Ragnvald?” said Guthorm.
“Indeed Ragnvald, how?” Atli asked with infuriating innocence.
“What would you have me agree to—handing over Sogn to this interloper?” Ragnvald asked.
“You fight so much on your king’s behalf,” said Atli, “and with your brother Sigurd as your land’s only protector—”
“King Harald,” said Ragnvald, speaking over him. “If Atli is such a brilliant fighter, with men who will follow him anywhere, why not enlist him to fight in Maer for Heming, and expel Solvi and his men once and for all?”
“Would he be better than you at this task?” Guthorm asked.
If only Ragnvald could get Harald alone, they could talk about this without the audience to whom Ragnvald must play, putting double and triple meanings in every word of his speech. He met Hilda’s eyes across the room and let her calmness soothe him. Let Atli talk himself into trouble. In his glibness, he could easily put a foot wrong.
“Don’t ask that,” said Harald with a laugh. “Ragnvald is too modest to answer truly.” To Ragnvald he said, “You command far more men and you are a proven leader. Atli has been gone too long and has what—thirty loyal men?”
“I have more in Dublin,” said Atli. Ragnvald wanted to ask how useful they would be to him, if Atli could not cross the sea to bring them back to Norway, but that would not help his case.
“How many can you raise from Sogn?” Harald asked Ragnvald, though he knew the answer.
“At least five hundred,” said Ragnvald, his heart sinking.
“Then it is settled,” said Harald. “Atli will guard Sogn for you, while you bring North Maer back under our control.”
“My king,” said Ragnvald, “by the friendship you bear me, let us discuss this privately. Later. It is not now a matter of justice, but of strategy.” He did not like to invoke Harald’s friendship before witnesses unless he had to. He already owed Harald so much, and with Herlaug’s wounding had gone even deeper into debt. It seemed too likely that one day Harald would find his requests too expensive, and withdraw his friendship rather than pay them.
“Of course!” said Harald. “You are right—this deserves more discussion. I would have peace between my friends, and both of your good swords bloodied in my conquest, not each other’s throats. We will decide how best to situate both of you after Yule.”
Ragnvald glanced at Guthorm, who looked satisfied enough by this. As Ragnvald left the audience chamber to refresh himself, he heard the swish of silk behind him and Vigdis seized his arm.
“Is this your doing?” he asked.
“You took me away from my son,” she said. “If Atli is guarding your family and hall, then perhaps . . .”
“You never cared for Einar when you were with us,” said Ragnvald.
“How could I, when your wife hated both of us so much?” said Vigdis, her voice rough, as though she truly felt pained. “Any affection I gave the kitten, I feared she would punish him for it.”
“True motherhood is difficult, I am told,” said Ragnvald dryly. Vigdis had never called Einar her kitten before, not in Ragnvald’s hearing or anywhere else. If Einar resembled a kitten, it was a fierce forest cat, as likely to scratch as to curl toward its master’s hand for affection.
“So it is,” she replied. “Give me Einar to raise, and I will turn Atli from this course.”
“Does he truly think he can get Sogn from me in this way?” Ragnvald asked.
“He already has,” said Vigdis. “You saw what Harald’s decision will be—he will not change his mind. And you do not have a better plan. If you did, you would have voiced it.”
Ragnvald might think of a better plan if he had some time to read the currents and set a new course. Harald had given him until Yule. He could thwart Atli yet.
“The wind changes quickly,” she said in a whisper, as though she knew the drift of his thoughts. Perhaps she did. She had known him longer than anyone else in Harald’s court. “Best move with it.”
He could give her Einar. A strange boy, little wanted by anyone except this woman. And his half-brother. Ragnvald could not do that to Ivar—the child would rather lose a limb than be parted from him.
“I will speak to Harald before I decide anything,” said Ragnvald. “But I have made my last bargain with you. I’ve thought of fostering Einar in the Orkney Islands to strengthen our alliances there. As it stands, you may see him at some year-turning feasts, but if he goes across the sea . . .” He shrugged. “If you want to see your son again, you had better try to change Atli’s mind.”
16
Svanhild slumped against the capstan of a ship piloted by Floki, warrior of Harald, king of all Norway. She had hailed the ship as it passed, told Floki who she was, and that she wanted to go to Nidaros. He helped her into the ship with a sort of frightened deference that made her wonder if he thought her a heroine or a villain.
She felt like a tapestry that had its ties cut. She did not even look at the fjord passing by. She was limp, boneless, a sensation that brought relief along with emptiness. Eystein was gone, that tether cut. She was no longer Solvi’s wife—that thought caused a tug in her breast. She knew very well the pain that had caused his ugly words. Her pain came in a different flavor, too bleak for anger, but she had said terrible things to him, things she did not mean. She could not return after those words had been said, flaying his manhood as surely as if she had used a knife. He would never forgive her.
Now she had fallen to the ground, to the bottom of this unfamiliar ship, the lowest point, where she could rest. And rest too upon Ragnvald’s old promise to her, that he would take her in no matter what. She had no doubt of his loyalty, and so she must do nothing now except let this ship bear her toward Nidaros.
She pulled herself up to standing when the ship made a broad turn and slowed. It approached a muddy beach crowded with boats of all sizes pulled up next to each other. A collection of houses beyond them reminded her of the market town Kaupanger, though Nidaros was more orderly. Newer and richer too, every building made of fresh-planed wood, kept well oiled. The seams between the turf bricks that made up the roofs were still visible. In another year or two, grass would grow to cover them.
She allowed Floki to set up a ladder for her to climb down from the ship. She had no desire to show off here as she did with Solvi’s men, to make sure they knew that she could jump out of a ship as well as any of them.
“King Harald will want to see you,” said Floki. “He speaks of you sometimes.” Floki was young and dazzled by her legend. He could not see past it to the tired woman in a grubby dress, stained from weeks of travel, who reeked of sweat and vomit.
“That is flatter
ing,” said Svanhild, her voice dull. She tried to put the force and charm into it that had won men’s loyalty before, and could not do it. “I have lost my son and my husband in one day, and I want the comfort of my brother Ragnvald. Please take me to him. I will be presented to King Harald when I am bathed and better dressed.” Floki looked uncertain. Svanhild put her hand on his forearm again. “I will tell him how you found me, do not fear.”
That was what Floki wanted to hear. He gave Svanhild an eager smile and then escorted her through the warren of buildings to a long hall where, he told her, Ragnvald had a sleeping room he shared with his wife. Floki said she might wait there, and he would fetch her brother.
Svanhild sat on the neatly made bed, wishing for nothing else but to lie down in it, dirty as she was, and escape her misery in sleep. She felt she could sleep for days, weeks, retreating to where the weight of Eystein’s death and Solvi’s betrayal could no longer touch her. To keep herself awake, she examined the treasures on the low folding table, and found among them a polished silver mirror. Even in the low lamplight she could see her face had grown thin and drawn from her weeks at sea tending Eystein. Unna had warned her that she would not carry a child to term unless she gained some weight. She put her hand over her womb—she had not felt the sickness since Eystein’s funeral. A seer Solvi had met on his travels, before marrying Svanhild, had told him that he would have only one son, so if this child lived, it must be a daughter.
She had not experienced daily sickness during her pregnancy with Eystein either—it had come and gone depending, Svanhild sometimes thought, on the direction of the wind. Its lack might be no more than her body’s natural pattern. Or Eystein’s sister might have died with him, and was waiting only for Svanhild’s body to expel her. She remembered Solvi holding her after she lost an early pregnancy, speaking no reproach, saying nothing at all, only letting his warmth soothe her sadness. How could that be the same man who had taken her child from her? A daughter would not tempt him to regain his ancestral land. For a daughter he would only try to amass a good dowry and find a worthy husband.
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