* * *
When Solvi woke in his bed the next morning, he felt a dislocation, a sliding across time and space that he had never experienced before, no matter how many strange shores he had visited. It took a long time for him to remember why he was in Tafjord. Harald’s forces would come to Tafjord now—they must, or they would have to wait until spring to attack. Svanhild—would she have told Harald of Solvi’s alliances and plans? Best to assume she had.
He went outside and, through the morning mist, heard the sound of chopping wood, and followed it to where Rane split logs with a massive ax. With his weight behind the blows, Solvi was surprised the logs did not explode into splinters.
“Do you want a turn?” Rane asked. He swung the ax again and it became embedded in a knotty log. Solvi shook his head. Rane raised the ax and log together overhead and crashed both down. The log flew apart and the ax bit deep into the block. “It’s hard losing a son,” he said. “You must make a new son as soon as you can. Then it will hurt less.”
Rane’s simple words caused grief to flash through Solvi again, stealing his breath and bringing tears to his eyes. He had made a new son—or daughter—with Svanhild and then thrown the child away.
“It is hard,” Rane continued. “Every night you will forget, and every morning you will feel it again.” He picked up another log, his huge hand palming one end.
“Is that why you’re doing a servant’s work this morning?” Solvi asked.
“I got into the habit,” said Rane. Solvi looked about at the scattering of log halves on the ground. He had not gotten into the habit of stacking them.
“Leave this for now,” said Solvi. “We need to talk of the battle to come.”
He gathered his allies and chief warriors outside. The fog did not lift as the morning went on, only eddied about the fjord and perched just above the top of his father’s drinking hall.
“We need ships scouting to watch for Harald coming from Nidaros,” said Solvi. “He might take any number of routes, though a few are the most likely.” He sketched out his understanding of the coastline in charcoal upon a wide flagstone. Distances in the drawing troubled him, for when he sailed a span of coastline grew or shrank depending on the wind. But he knew he had placed the islands right, and marked which stretches of water could be seen from which vantage points. With his own forces recombined with Ulfarr’s, and now Gudbrand’s and Rane’s, they would be able to defeat Harald.
“You’ve already taken Tafjord,” said Rane. “And with it you control North Maer. What about my land in Vestfold?”
Solvi sighed. He thought they had agreed upon a strategy before leaving Iceland. “We agreed to make Tafjord the foothold of the resistance in the west,” said Solvi. “Once we defeat Harald in battle, we will be established here, and we can take war to Nidaros, or lure Harald to Vestfold and make war on him there.” Rane looked as though he wanted to speak again, and Solvi cut him off. “What does Harald offer?” Solvi asked Rane. “What does he give the jarls of Norway so they are willing to share taxes with him, and even give up their inheritance to him?”
Rane shook his head. “Nothing. He doesn’t give, he takes. That is why we must take it back.”
“Taxes?” Thorstein asked. “He takes our—your kingdoms from you, and gives over the taxes to the remaining jarls, so they have more gold.”
“But he takes even more for himself,” said Solvi. “No, I think he offers them safety in return for their freedom. A coward’s bargain, bought with oaths and with gold and with land, but mostly freedom from uncertainty. And who among us can truly be free from uncertainty?”
“Only death is certain,” said Ketil.
“Yes,” said Solvi. “If they do not believe Harald can make them safe, then they will rise up against him. Harald’s power rests on the belief that he will never lose. All we need to do is make him suffer one defeat. One defeat and men will no longer believe the gods favor him. One defeat and his kings will start to question whether it is worth paying his taxes. His heavy, punishing taxes that no king before him has ever required.”
“Very well,” said Rane. “But my men are not good sailors. I want them resting for the battle, not scouting.”
“The battle will come to us with no warning if we do not have scouts,” said Solvi.
“I thought you knew these lands well,” said one of Gudbrand’s sons. Solvi wished Gudbrand would send them away, for they had nothing useful to say. Rane did not either, but at least he had forces he could commit.
“I do,” said Solvi testily. “That is why I know we need scouts in these places. We will have relief scouts for them so none are spending too long sleeping rough. All will be rested for the battle, I promise you.”
“They won’t be rested, they will be stranded!” said Rane.
“Some of them,” said Solvi. “What is your suggestion?”
“Rest and feed ourselves”—Rane patted his broad belly—“until Harald brings battle to us, and then defeat him. You would split our forces.”
“And you would give him an avenue to escape,” said Solvi. “With scouts in these places”—he pointed them out again—“we will have time to get into position and trap him between two fleets.”
“I still say we have enough ships to trap him here no matter what,” said Rane.
“What if he sends scouts to see how many ships we have and does not even come here?” Solvi asked. “I am trying to give us the greatest chance of success.”
“If he does not come here, then we can retake Vestfold in the spring,” said Rane.
Solvi stood up from his drawing, rubbing his forehead between his eyes. His patience was fraying.
“What if we put it to the men and ask for a vote?” Ketil Flatnose asked. Solvi had used votes before to keep unity, though he only allowed them when he already knew what the outcome would be.
“You cannot command an army with a vote,” said Rane. “Do you think Harald calls for votes?”
“We can discuss it more tonight,” said Solvi. In the meantime, he would speak with Gudbrand privately, and Ketil as well—the suggestion of a vote was a foolish one. If Svanhild were here, Solvi could have put her by Rane’s side, to flirt and charm him. She would challenge him, work him around to Solvi’s plan until Rane thought it was his own idea.
* * *
Dinner that night was overcooked, spitted goat—poor fare. Svanhild had once wanted to make Tafjord into a fine hall, a hall of which she could be proud. He grew angry with her again when he looked around at the faces of his men, picking at the stringy meat. Nothing prevented the food from being better except laziness and there being no one to command the servants to do better. She could have managed this place. Solvi did not know if he was more angry with her or himself for failing to give this to her. Tafjord needed a woman, and Solvi needed a woman’s touch in these negotiations, if not Svanhild—he glanced at Ulfarr, who sat with the woman from the previous night. She had fresh bruises on her wrists.
“Ulfarr, come tell me again how you took Tafjord from Heming Hakonsson,” said Solvi. “I want to make sure I understand all there is to know of him, for he will surely sail against us again.”
Ulfarr rose, wiped his hands off on his tunic, and came to sit next to Solvi. “He is a foolish whelp,” he said. “He did not set a guard, or—it was not a very good one, since we killed what scouts we could find, and the remaining did not pass the message along. He killed only a few of my men.”
“How did he escape?” Solvi asked.
Ulfarr scowled, his heavy cheeks pouching out. “He was on a ship that slipped through our grasp. We captured four of his ships, and the men on them—well, some of them used to be your men, and plenty were happy to join me rather than face the sword. The others we killed and burned so they wouldn’t stink up the place.”
“What of his women?” Solvi asked.
Ulfarr grinned and jerked his head in the direction of the woman who still sat at his place, rubbing her wrists under the table. “I
have his concubine now,” he said. “She’s a beauty, though she has no spirit.”
“Do you mean to say you are growing tired of her?” Solvi asked. Ulfarr was always loyal, and unless he had fallen in love with the girl, he would give her over. “I have never seen you stay with one woman for very long.” He gave her a long, appraising look, thinking of Svanhild to make his expression soften. The woman moved a hand to her belly. Solvi wondered if Ulfarr, or perhaps Heming before him, had made her pregnant, and that gave rise to the expression of disgust on her face, or perhaps it was her fear of Ulfarr’s touch. Thinking about Svanhild with child, he felt as though a bowstring ran from his throat to his stomach, and suddenly stretched sharply.
“Yes,” said Ulfarr, bringing Solvi’s attention back to the woman. “I’m tired of her. You can have her.” He said it with an ill grace that made Solvi wonder how true it was, but not for long—Ulfarr would find another woman. He stood up and walked over to her, and said a few words in her ear. Her eyes widened in a look of wild relief before she settled her face again, and rose gracefully from her seat.
Solvi made room for her next to him. “Ulfarr said you were Heming’s mistress,” he said.
She put a hand on his thigh and began sliding it upward. “Yes, and I know many tricks, tricks that could please a man as beautiful as Heming, who had his pick of women.”
“Why did he not take you with him, then?” he asked. Anger crossed her features, as before, and again she settled them into a pleasant mask.
“He made the escape he could,” she said. “And has left me free for other men.”
“Free,” said Solvi. “You are passed around like a gold armband. Is a piece of jewelry free?” He wanted to see if he could make her truly angry, for if Ulfarr or the men before him had broken her spirit too much, then she could be of no use to him.
“What woman is ever free?” she asked bitterly. “I thought you would humiliate me less than your captain, but instead I find you worse.”
“Should I send you back to him?” Solvi asked.
She lowered her head and shook it. “No. I lied. You are not worse than him, at least not yet. And you might be better.”
“Yes, tell me how I can do better,” said Solvi. “I want truth from you.”
“Truth? You have not even asked my name,” she said.
“What is it?”
“Tova,” she said. “What else do you want from me?”
“Just Tova?” Solvi asked.
“My mother had many men, and the man she called my father refused to give me his name.”
“And so you follow in her footsteps?” At her angry look, he shook his head. He needed to control himself better. Tova was not Svanhild. “You need not answer that.”
“Then what do you want of me?”
“Sit by my side. Tell me what you know of Heming, and his father, and anyone else you met while warming his bed.”
“So you can defeat them?”
“Are you still loyal to Heming Hakonsson?” Solvi asked, more curious than angry.
“As loyal as I will be to you when you are gone,” said Tova.
“So no,” said Solvi. She held herself rigidly away from him, now that he had moved her hand away from his leg. He thought this the more honest posture. “I do not expect loyalty from you, only your service. But if I think you have served well, I will . . .” He hesitated, wondering what could she want from him, what could buy her service now, and perhaps keep her from betrayal later. “When this battle is done, I will reward you with gold, or send you where you wish. I will find you a husband, and give you a dowry, or make you my housekeeper. I will give you a choice.”
“If you live,” she said. “You may not. But I will answer you. Heming is a man of good intentions, with little ability to enforce his will. His father is a bully. His younger brothers are something of both.”
Solvi had guessed all of that, for though Hakon and his sons had their deeds sung widely, only Hakon’s achievements had been done without help, and lasted longer than a year or two. None would sing of Heming taking over Solvi’s empty hall, especially now that he had lost it. “I need you to talk to Rane,” Solvi said to her. “Find out what he fears and what he wants. Make him think that he should follow my lead in all things.”
Tova sighed. “Do you want me to join him in bed?”
“If you wish,” he said. “If you think it will help and it does not . . .” He did not know how to put it, only he did not want to see her bruised and flinching more than she already did. Her battered spirit made him feel hopeless. She stood again, and tugged her sleeves down over the bruises on her wrists. Within a moment of speaking to Rane, she had him laughing, his cheeks apple-bright. Good, at least he would be in a better mood when Solvi came to argue with him again.
When he judged that Tova had done her work, Solvi brought his drinking cup and a bottle of spiced Frankish wine over to him. He poured a glass for himself and one for Rane.
“What if I send my men as scouts?” Solvi asked. He had held this possibility in reserve, for it would stretch his forces thin, and put some of his best sailors out of the way for the battle. “And perhaps any of yours who volunteer? Will you then agree to my plan?”
“You may send your men,” said Rane. Solvi tamped down his annoyance at Rane’s assumption that he gave Solvi permission for anything. But Rane had the ear of the Swedish king. Solvi needed him. “Mine will do as I command,” Rane added.
“But will you agree to my plan?” Solvi asked.
“Yes,” said Rane. “As long as my men are well rested before you send them out to close the trap.”
“Agreed,” said Solvi. He nodded his thanks at Tova, for whatever she had said, and toasted with Rane, who shared his cup with her.
On the following day, Snorri and Tryggulf organized shifts of scouts, both on foot and in boats, stationing them close enough to one another that they could pass signals: smoke, fire, piercing whistles from flutes carved out of hollow bird bones. Fishing boats patrolled every inch of Geiranger Fjord’s shores, and Solvi promised a handful of silver to the family of whoever spotted Harald’s ship first. Every few days Solvi visited one of the closer scouts to make sure that signals passed correctly.
Then one day the message came that ships arrived from the north, bearing Harald’s colors and Heming’s. The wind carried Solvi quickly back to Tafjord. Rane took his eight ships to the bend in the fjord called Solskel to hide while Harald’s forces passed. Solvi planned to sail out at first light. Between Solvi’s ships and Rane’s, Harald’s force would be crushed and he could no longer claim to be undefeated. That night Solvi could not sleep for visions of what he would do to Harald when he caught him. He would not ransom him, no matter what his family offered. For Harald’s dream to die, he must die too.
18
Two weeks after leaving the Norse coast behind, Sigurd and Egil’s ship had run low on drinking water. Arguments broke out between families and Sigurd feared outright mutiny until he finally sighted black shapes on the horizon that resolved into green islands when the ship drew closer. Even knowing little about sailing, Sigurd had not formed a very good opinion of their captain Dyri’s skills. He had scarcely been able to find his way out of the Norse barrier islands, as the air grew colder and winter storms threatened. He seemed not to know how to handle his small ship, though he had claimed it was his own.
Sigurd noticed a plume of smoke coming from a hummock halfway up one of the island’s hills. When the ship passed into the channel between the two islands, he saw that the hummock was a house made of stacked turf, as only the poorest families in Norway used. A harbor opened up before them, with a rocky beach that rose up to another grass-covered hill. At the top of the valley, a proper hall reached its crossbeams to the sky.
“That will be the most important man on the island,” said Egil, who stood by him. “We should go there first and announce ourselves.”
“Is this Iceland?” Sigurd asked. “We have been traveling lo
ng enough that it should be.”
Egil shook his head. “I have not seen Iceland, but I think these are the Faroe Islands. Iceland is far larger and has already made room for many of the kings that Harald expelled. The Faroes are only a way station for us.”
“Dyri, is that true?” Sigurd asked. “This is not Iceland?”
Dyri muttered something, and Sigurd did not press. If he exposed Dyri’s ignorance, it would frighten their passengers.
“We will find out,” said Sigurd. “You brought us safely to land.”
Dyri nodded. “I did, yes, and the gods know you could not have done it.”
“Exactly,” said Sigurd. He had seen Egil chafe at these little slights, but Sigurd did not mind them; he had never sailed farther than a half day from Sogn before.
“You are the leading man among us,” said Dyri to Sigurd. “You and Egil should go to the owner of that hall. Maybe they will give us food.”
And if they do not? Sigurd wanted to ask, but he remained quiet. A leader should keep his doubts to himself.
* * *
Sigurd and Egil climbed to the hall, while Dyri and the passengers unloaded their baggage onto the beach. The hall was weathered, though not too old, and long enough to shelter a large household. An armed man opened the door, asked their names, and, hearing nothing to worry him, conducted them into the hall’s main room. Some men of middle age sat dicing at a table by a fire pit. Sigurd recognized the one dressed in bright colors, with gold at his waist and shoulders, from the Sogn ting. He looked as Sigurd thought a king should look, old but with the strong build of a warrior, upright and wary even sitting. Odin might look this way sitting in his high seat that overlooked the nine worlds of creation.
The fire flickered, and an image of the sacrifices at the Sogn ting sprang to Sigurd’s mind, the night before his father took him to murder Ragnvald. Sigurd looked again upon Hakon Grjotgardsson, king of Halogaland, father of Oddi.
“I am Sigurd Olafsson, and this is my friend Egil Hrolfsson,” he said, wondering if Hakon would remember him as well.
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