If he had been pleased to hear the news of her pregnancy, she would have stayed. She must cling to her anger, or she would throw herself at Ragnvald’s feet and beg him to bring her back to Solvi. No, Solvi had denied her any choice when he dragged her and Eystein from Iceland, sent attackers to Tafjord, played her for a fool along with all of the other targets of his cleverness. She would make her own choices now.
Her face in the silver mirror twisted with these thoughts, turning as ugly as their parting words, so she put the mirror away. No wonder Floki thought her a sorceress. She would let Harald’s cooks feed her up until she was plump again, and perhaps let Ragnvald marry her off to a new husband. She would make herself rich and happy and placid and take no more sea journeys except pleasure trips.
She heard swiftly moving feet, a rustle of curtains, and then Ragnvald was there.
“Svanhild,” he said, staring at her dumbly. “You’re . . . how? You’re so thin.”
She felt a rush of pleasure so strong at seeing him that it almost wrenched tears from her. She covered the force of her emotion by tossing a pillow weakly at him, which he caught and held in one hand. As he came toward her to put it back in the bed, she rose, threw her arms around him, and clung to him. He held her and when he would have let go, she held on tighter, until she was crying against his shoulder, hardly feeling it—no sobs, only tears that would not stop, a river she could not dam.
He maneuvered her so that he sat next to her on the bed and could hold her less awkwardly. When she finally released him, he pulled the scarf from her hair and gave it to her so she could use it to dry her tears.
“What are you doing here?” he asked as she dabbed at her cheeks. “Floki said you had run away from your husband. Can we expect Solvi at any instant? Or is he dead? Floki did not know.”
“No, he’s—” She cut herself off. If Solvi was no longer her husband, she could tell Ragnvald where he went, what he planned, but she could not take that step yet, not so quickly. She was not yet ready to imagine him dead on Ragnvald’s sword. She would rather think of him at the steering oar of one of his ships, narrowing his eyes and looking at the horizon.
“He’s sailing for Tafjord,” said Ragnvald, half to himself. “Yes, he must. He will join his man there. And he expects reinforcements, or he would not bring his force into the heart of Harald’s territory.” At her expression, he added, “Do not worry, I would have guessed this. Harald has already planned to sail against him. Did Solvi think that we would ignore him all winter until he could dig in more? No, he is expecting to force a battle when the weather will make it all the more dangerous. But Harald’s mother, Ronhild, is a better weather-witch than any he could have.”
“Do you need me to answer any of your questions or do you know everything already?” Svanhild asked him crisply.
“Tell me why you came, Svanhild,” he said, putting his arm around her again. “I do not need the whole story, only—did Solvi mistreat you?”
“No more than—no. He has been a good husband until . . . just now. And he was trying. Oh Ragnvald, our son . . .” She could hardly speak for crying again. “Do not make me say it.” He pulled her close until she lay her head on his shoulder, and he stroked her hair until she stopped crying again. Hilda entered at that moment. Svanhild saw a flash of anger on her face followed by recognition.
“Wife, look—my sister has returned to me,” said Ragnvald. “She is too ill and heartsick to be in much company. Please help her bathe and find her clothes. Keep her out of the way of Vigdis if you can.”
“Vigdis?” Svanhild cried. “What is she doing here?”
“That is a long story,” said Ragnvald, “and I’m sure you will hear the parts of it that flatter me the least from Hilda.” He gave Hilda a look that mixed affection with annoyance. “I think no one would want to face that woman at less than their best. Once she hears of your coming she will seek you out. I will say you are ill as long as I can, but then you must make ready.”
“Leave us, husband,” said Hilda. “Svanhild needs to rest.”
Ragnvald gave Svanhild one of his rare smiles. The scar across his cheek had cut one of his childhood dimples in half—Solvi’s doing, she remembered. She returned it, though her smile felt brittle.
“I want a bath first,” she said to Hilda. “And then rest, yes. Thank you, sister.”
“You make Ragnvald sound like a boy again,” said Hilda. “I have not heard him so carefree in a long time.” Svanhild wondered what that meant, either about Ragnvald or his marriage to Hilda. Perhaps both of them were too serious to make a happy marriage. When they reached the bath, Hilda spoke a few words to the old woman attendant. “She will find me when you’re done,” said Hilda.
“Bathe with me,” said Svanhild suddenly. She did not want to be alone. She had felt alone on her voyage, and now even more in this strange new town, though Ragnvald’s welcome was like a warm blanket: her big brother, ready to take everything in hand. He did not need her to do anything but bathe and rest. If he fought Solvi—well, Solvi had always been sure, with some fey, inborn understanding, that he and Ragnvald would not be the cause of each other’s deaths, and she was willing to comfort herself with that.
Hilda gave Svanhild a shy smile Svanhild remembered from their girlhood together. “Of course,” she said. She hesitated, and added, “Sister.”
In the bath, Svanhild leaned her head back against the dry wood and let the cleansing sweat pour from her body. It smelled of the sea, a marine tang that rose to Svanhild’s nose. She washed off Solvi with this sweat and the frigid water she poured over herself. The cold drew tears to her eyes, from some bottomless source. She wondered if she would ever be done shedding them.
* * *
Svanhild spent her first few days in Nidaros resting in Hilda’s room with no will to leave the bed. When she slept, her body felt light, as though it scarcely existed. During the terrible times when it would not sleep, it was unbearably heavy, full of aches that had no source or end, that made even turning over into an ordeal.
Hilda joined her at night, to sleep next to her, and otherwise made no demands on her time. The children—Ragnvald’s children—who she alluded to in conversation with Ragnvald, slept elsewhere, so they did not trouble Svanhild. Hilda took care not even to mention them to Svanhild, knowing her loss was raw, until Svanhild became annoyed and tried to bait her into talking about them. Hilda’s avoidance was as cruel a reminder as hearing about them.
Ragnvald visited her sometimes, but even then she spoke little and had trouble staying awake. Neither he nor Hilda were the same people she had known when she left. Svanhild supposed she was not the same either, but she also did not know who she was now, no longer Solvi’s wife or Eystein’s mother. Ragnvald wore his new rank well, thicker of shoulder and solid and smooth through the waist, dressed in rich, dark clothing.
Hilda wore her years less well. Her clothes, though finely made, did not fit her well. She had a heaviness to her, not only of body, but also of spirit. She seemed years older than Ragnvald, dim where he was vital. She bore herself hesitantly, except when she had to deal with physical realities, like helping Svanhild out of her dress on that first night. Then her touch was firm and confident, and Svanhild wished Hilda would take charge of the rest of Svanhild’s life with the same ease she had in manipulating Svanhild’s limbs.
Svanhild only found peace in the moments between sleeping and waking, when she drifted in a dream state. At those times, she knew of her losses, but could pretend that they had happened to someone else, or to herself, but a long time ago. Like the loss of her father, experienced, mourned, and worked into her memories, no longer an open wound.
* * *
Eventually Svanhild’s lethargy faded enough that she grew tired of sleep and breathing the stale air of the hall. She wanted a freshening breeze on her face, and to see something other than the wooden ceiling of the room where she had spent the last seven days. She wanted to bathe again, this time to wash off the mu
stiness of lying too long abed. Hilda would surely prefer sharing a bed with her if she smelled better. She washed Svanhild’s face and hands with a cloth in the morning, as though Svanhild were a child or an invalid.
Svanhild wrapped her hair under a wimple and added an extra hood to protect herself from the weather, then made her way through the maze of hangings to a door that led outside. The air that touched her face was pure and cold, more refreshing than a drink of spring water, though the light from the overcast sky seemed to stab her eyes. She chose a direction that paralleled the fjord, and began walking that way. If she did not find the bathhouse before she reached the edge of the town, she would turn around. It did not matter, as long as she had something to do.
Bare trees stretched toward the sky like hands reaching for one of the heavens. Crows roosted in the highest branches; at some unspoken signal a flock of them took to the skies, flying up and up until Svanhild lost them in black spots before her eyes.
She turned her gaze back to earth and saw a steaming, naked man run from a small building, followed by servants holding towels and a mug of something hot. The man whooped as he broke through the lacework of ice near the river’s edge. Svanhild walked closer and saw him throw a mass of tangled blond hair over his head so the water from it streamed down his back.
He scrambled up the slope with a few athletic bounds, and ran back toward the bathhouse, his servants following him. He was very tall. Svanhild would not even come to his shoulder. His size and the striations of muscle along his back and flanks, the powerful symmetry of his shoulders, and his long white legs furred with golden hair, made him look a god—Heimdall, the white god, must glow like this when he came from the gods’ bathhouse.
One of the servants walked directly toward her. “You cannot gawk at the king,” he said. “Begone, old woman.”
She turned away, slowly. She should not be ordered about by a servant. Was she not a sea queen in her own right?
“Who is this?” Harald asked, standing to be wrapped in a towel. Svanhild’s gaze traveled down his naked torso. The muscles of his stomach moved in and out as he caught his breath from the cold.
“I am Svanhild Eysteinsdatter,” said Svanhild. Her voice, long unused, cracked. She pitched it lower. “Sister of—”
“Sister of Ragnvald,” said Harald. He seemed not to feel the cold, or his brightness was proof against it. “I am pleased to see you are feeling better. You came to bathe?” He gestured at the servant who had scolded her. “Send for waiting-women to attend the lady Svanhild in the bath.”
He was definitely bigger than when she had seen him last in Vestfold, grown into his full potential. Svanhild flushed, annoyed and amused by her own lust, half pleased to feel life flowing through her again, and half angry that her body had forgotten its grief so easily.
“Thank you, my king,” she said, lowering her head.
“If you are better, come to dinner tonight. You can sit at the head table if you like—or not, if it is too much.”
“Thank you,” she said again. “I will do as seems prudent.” Her embarrassment made her speak formally. A throng of women servants came upon them then, saving her from saying more. They were young girls who reacted to Harald as Svanhild had, though they troubled to hide it less. They swept Svanhild toward the bathhouse where their chatter kept her from thinking of Harald or anyone else.
* * *
Hilda was waiting in the room when Svanhild returned. “They are taking battle to Tafjord soon,” she told Svanhild. Svanhild had become accustomed to the dull, rough way that Hilda reported anything about which she was unhappy. She had said a few words about Vigdis in the same tone: how Ragnvald took her as a concubine, fathered a child on her, and then sent her away. It had shocked Svanhild. That Vigdis would seek his bed was not so surprising, nor that he would allow it, but that it would go on, with him acknowledging the child, seemed shameful. She supposed a king and ally of Harald might do what he liked. He had at least sent Vigdis away.
“Ronhild—Harald’s mother—she wants all the women at dinner tonight to remind the men of who they are coming home for,” said Hilda, still diffident. “Will you join?”
“Please, yes, if you will help me prepare myself,” said Svanhild. “I have been used to the company of rough men these many years past, and I do not want to shame Ragnvald.”
“I don’t know if I can help with that,” said Hilda. “But I will braid your hair.” She handed Svanhild a comb. “Brush it again and I will dress it for you.”
Svanhild looked neat, at least, after Hilda finished her ministrations, and Svanhild examined herself in the silver mirror. Hilda had loaned her a dress of golden green covered by a bright gold overdress, and made a hasty hem so Svanhild would not trip on it. Amber beads hung between the bronze brooches that held up the outer dress. Hilda wore a dark burgundy dress with cream piping that suited her coloring, and a necklace of rubies and gold. Svanhild felt at her belt for her package of jewelry. She had worn it even in sleep in Harald’s town. Too many people lived in Nidaros for Svanhild to trust them all. She did not want to adorn herself with Solvi’s jewels, though—all would know from where they had come. Better Hilda’s borrowed adornment.
Her hair looked severe the way Hilda had done it, with two braids keeping it back from her face. She was too thin; her protruding cheekbones made her look like a crone. Her eyes were deeply shadowed. She tugged at the hair around her face, trying to soften the lines.
“You are beautiful.” Hilda’s tone made it sound like less of a compliment than a rote phrase. She probably spoke to her children like that: it’s not time for dinner yet, wipe your nose, stop hitting your brother.
“Thank you,” said Svanhild. “I am scared.” She had said it partially because she knew Hilda would like to hear Svanhild echoing her own fear of this place, but she found it was true. She could face Harald again, naked or not, and know what to say to him. She knew how to talk to a bold man like that. She did not know what she would say to the crowds of his supporters who knew her for Solvi’s wife.
“Come,” said Hilda, sounding pleased for the first time since Svanhild’s arrival. “We will go together.”
“Will your sons be there?” Svanhild asked. “I want to meet my nephews.”
“Yes,” said Hilda, still with warmth in her voice.
“Tell me about them.” Svanhild linked her arm with Hilda.
“Ivar is my oldest,” Hilda said as they walked, “and he is the sweetest, most handsome boy in all of Norway. Thorir is younger, and he always runs after his older brothers, trying to play with them, but they never let him unless one of them is sick or being punished. Rolli—Hrolf—is my youngest, named after my father. He’s still at the breast, and he is as loud and demanding a child as ever lived. Nothing is too good for him.” The pride in Hilda’s voice made Svanhild smile in answer. Here was Hilda’s joy.
“Older brothers?” she asked.
“Vigdis’s boy is here too. Einar—guilt named. My husband killed his foster-brother, Einar, and hoped to placate the gods by making a new Einar.” Svanhild had nothing to say to that. She remembered lame Einar, with his big shoulders and rough hands. He had flirted with her, hoped to marry her.
The high ceilings of Harald’s feasting hall danced with light cast by stamped tin lamps that threw shards of brightness over the walls and ceiling beams. The food had not reached the table yet, but its aromas had: the rich smell of meat stewed in milk, the sweetness of fruit sauces, the sharp tang of leeks. Before today, Svanhild had eaten only the bread and cheese that Hilda brought to her, and more from a sense of duty than from hunger. It often took half of the day for her to finish her portion.
Floki bounded up to Svanhild. “I am glad you are well, Lady Svanhild,” he said. “Please, let me introduce you to Harald. He is eager to meet you, as is his chief skald, Thorbjorg Hornklofe.” Svanhild had heard of this skald even in Iceland. His poetry of Harald’s deeds had reached them. Eystein had puzzled over bits of kenning,
turning them over in his mouth, while Svanhild hoped that if he could not be a warrior, he might command men with his words.
Not now, though. She thought it deliberately, to test how the words stabbed pain into her breast. And they did, bringing with them the memory of Eystein’s body burning on the beach, Solvi’s face severe behind him. She closed her eyes tightly. When she opened them again, Floki was peering at her, concerned. “King Harald is not here yet. He usually likes to join the hall when all are ready for toasts.”
And to make an entrance, Svanhild guessed.
“Let me show you to your seat,” said Floki. He took her by the arm and brought her to a bench near the head of the hall. “I will have some wine brought to you.”
Very good—she might sit with her cup and watch the people around her. Strange to be so shy when she had visited every kind of foreign court by Solvi’s side, and had never minded when they saw her as a wild princess from the far north. The wine Floki brought was smooth and sweet, tasting of the apples of summers gone by. The apple trees in Iceland had not been old enough to bear anything but the tartest fruit that needed long stewing and the addition of honey to be palatable. This wine was a soft, sunlit day upon her tongue, golden light distilled.
“Svanhild, it is good to see you up,” said Ragnvald as he approached her.
“Yes,” said the dark-haired man next to him. “He has smiled more in the past three days than I have seen him do in six years of marriage! And I thought I must see you again too. You were only a girl when we met last, and now you are a beautiful woman.”
Svanhild rose to greet Oddi Hakonsson with a bow. The poems she had heard never related Ragnvald’s deeds without mentioning his best friend Oddi by his side. He had grown into his broad mouth and wide-set eyes, which Svanhild had thought made him ugly as a boy. A beard made his face look friendly, and not so broad, and he too moved with a warrior’s grace.
The Sea Queen Page 20