He spent the short days looking out over the cold, pure sea, thinking of what he could say to Svanhild. He had lost his trust in Harald—must he lose his trust in Svanhild as well? He rehearsed conversations with her in his head, imagining a soft approach and then a harsher one, though he could imagine a satisfying end to none of them. These thoughts kept his gruesome memories at bay for a time but gave him no more peace, and the memories always came back. He had more sympathy for Atli now; the waves that had taken his nerve for sailing must feel like this, a wave of fear and horror that Ragnvald could not control.
21
While Harald’s warriors were away, the guards of Nidaros kept watch for them along the fjord, all the way out to the barrier islands. The weeks passed slowly for Svanhild. She used the excuse of her grief to stay out of the way of Hilda and Vigdis, though lethargy no longer kept her in bed. She felt as though the same day repeated itself over and over again. She woke next to Hilda, helped her bring the boys to breakfast, and then begged off when Hilda invited her to the women’s room. It reminded Svanhild far too much of what she had escaped at Ardal, down to Vigdis’s honeyed barbs.
She was happier bundling herself up against the cold and walking around the town, or climbing up the hill that overlooked Nidaros so she could see the layout of buildings, and compare it to the vast cities of the south that she had visited with Solvi. She would likely never feel the heat of Constantinople again, though whenever she sweat herself clean in the bath, she imagined herself there.
Harald’s forces returned to Nidaros a little more than a month before Yule, sailing just ahead of a late fall storm that bore winter on its back. His men looked half-frozen as they stumbled into the hall, jostling for places before the long fire. Their voices shattered the quiet of the previous weeks as they called for ale, for help with frozen boots, for healers and food, for all the things that cold, hungry warriors needed. They were so covered with frost and cloaks that Svanhild could not pick out Ragnvald from among them. Only Harald stood out, his head above all the rest, his shoulders the broadest. Svanhild drew herself up straighter on seeing him, and she remembered her glimpse of him at the bath, a memory that made her suddenly hot, even with the cold that the men’s cloaks gave off.
Then she saw Ragnvald, who had been hidden by the bulk of Harald’s frame, and relief overcame her. He crouched down and held his hands, bone-white with cold, toward the fire. Other men gave him the space due his rank, enough that Svanhild could squeeze herself between them and embrace him.
“You’re alive,” she said. She had not doubted it, but every battle, every sea voyage, was a chance to die, and he had neither Harald’s luck nor Solvi’s cunning.
“Yes,” said Ragnvald dully. “And your husband is still alive as well.” Svanhild tried to keep her relief from showing, but she had never been good at hiding her feelings. Ragnvald’s face seemed to close in upon itself. The white scar that split his dark beard pulled tight. “Do you want me to send you back to him?” he asked. “I had rather you be there than here, sending Harald’s men to their deaths.”
“Most of you have returned,” she said, feeling stupid. She had missed Ragnvald’s warmth these past weeks, his pleasure at her company, and now it seemed he had left those things behind in the fighting.
“Some did not,” said Ragnvald. “Some will never come home.”
“That is battle,” said Svanhild. “Should you not say instead that it was their time?”
“I do not want to speak to you further,” said Ragnvald. “You should put yourself on the next ship bound for Iceland and return to your true loyalties.” He rose from his place at the fire, wincing as he clenched his frozen fingers into fists.
“I don’t understand,” said Svanhild. “Who has been poisoning you against me?”
“Solvi’s allies—they came in such great numbers we are lucky to have escaped.” He turned away from her.
“Brother,” she called after him. She pushed between bodies of men that closed ranks behind him, only to find Oddi’s hand on her elbow. She shook his grasp off. He had no right to keep her from Ragnvald. Oddi caught her by the waist with a strong arm, and held her until she stopped trying to push him away. “Let me go! I need to speak with him.”
“He does not want to see you,” said Oddi.
“Why is he angry with me?” she asked him. She struggled against his arm as he held on to her until she realized she could not get away, and instead felt for his fingers on her hip, sliding hers over them in a way he might think was flirtatious. She grabbed his forefinger and bent it back until she felt resistance. “Let me go and I won’t break your finger,” she said.
“Ragnvald thinks you came here to betray Harald for your husband,” said Oddi coolly, though he loosened his hold.
“And you think so too,” said Svanhild, finally understanding. She let Oddi’s finger slide out of her grasp.
“You came here, while Solvi went off to Tafjord. You said nothing of his plans when Ragnvald asked. What else could he think?”
“I did not—” said Svanhild indignantly, then brought herself up short. “I did not come here with that intent. I was too overcome with grief to tell Ragnvald much of anything.” She looked up at Oddi’s face, set in a stern expression that did not sit naturally on his broad, friendly features. Ragnvald had hardly asked her anything about Solvi. She could blame herself for many things, especially for Eystein’s illness and death, but not that. “I do not need to defend myself to you.” Only to the dead.
“You will need to defend yourself to someone,” said Oddi. “Come, tell me, and I will convince Ragnvald.”
“Is this how you have worked, these past five years?” Svanhild asked. “People come to you because you are less frightening to approach than my brother?”
Oddi shrugged. “Perhaps so. Shall I fetch you a glass of wine? We can find somewhere more comfortable to sit.”
Svanhild nodded gratefully. Oddi cleared off a bit of bench near a fireplace, and sat down close to her. He smelled of blood and leather, scents that made Svanhild think of Solvi with a wave of almost pleasurable sadness, rather than the sharp stabs of loss that she had flinched from in the previous weeks. She sipped the wine, a sweet apple, and smiled at its honey.
“Nidaros has fine apple groves in the summer,” he said. “You should stay and see them.”
“Ragnvald wants to send me back to Solvi,” she said. Part of her wanted to let him. She could persuade him to take her back, no matter how angry he had been.
“Tell me what you knew,” said Oddi. “I don’t think Ragnvald should send you back.”
“I did not know much—Solvi made alliances with Rane of Vermaland, and Gudbrand of Hordaland. We left Iceland without them, when my—we were to winter in Iceland, and I to stay there, and that is where we met Rane. He was a jarl that Harald ousted from Vestfold in the early years after the death of Halfdan, Harald’s father. Harald was a mighty king even at ten, they say.”
“I think that was Guthorm—his uncle,” said Oddi. “But the outcome was the same.”
Svanhild hardly heard him, lost in her memories of leaving Iceland. “At first it did not seem as though Solvi wanted an alliance with Rane and the Swedish king. But then . . . I don’t know.” She told Oddi about the arrival of Geirny and her father, Nokkve, how Svanhild threatened her with a knife, and how that had cemented the alliance. “On the trip back to Norway, all I cared about was Eys—was my son. He was dying. He died on the northern strand of Trondheim Fjord. Solvi said he would get better when he was on Norse soil and he did not. He said we were going to Tafjord, that Ulfarr had taken it for us.”
She could see the pattern now. “I used to help him,” she continued. “He talked to me about strategy and we planned together, but he did not let me know his true purpose. I didn’t care about getting Tafjord for our son. I just wanted to be safe. Safe and free, as we were together. He wanted more, and I ignored it. I was blind all those years. I told my brother what I knew, I swear
it.” Svanhild had raised her voice and a few of the other men and women in the hall turned their heads. Oddi put his hand over hers and stroked it gently, as if quieting an anxious horse.
“Solvi is a fine liar,” said Oddi. “It is what I have heard of him. One of the best. He did not tell you what you did not want to know. It was not your fault.”
“And you will say that to my brother? Like you said it was my fault in the first place?” Svanhild asked.
Oddi dropped her hand and stood abruptly. She smiled up at him, a smile she had learned from Solvi, all edge and no warmth.
“I only guessed,” she said. “Sit down, and tell me why.” Oddi looked around the hall, as though one of the other men would save him. At benches all over the hall, men now told parts of the battle to each other, forming it into stories that they would retell for the rest of their lives, forgetting their cowardice and remembering their bravery—until at the end every man would think himself a hero.
She looked at Oddi until he returned his gaze to her, and sat, putting his head in his hands. “I blamed you because he blamed himself for not knowing more about Solvi’s plans,” said Oddi. “I did not want to—perhaps you deserved better, but so did he.”
Svanhild had floated above grief and every other feeling for the past few weeks, but Oddi’s words threatened to break through the film of ice and anger that protected her now.
“What happened?” she asked. “What blame is there?” He hesitated for a long moment, then told her a tale she would hear repeated in a skald’s alliterative poetry at the feast that night, though the prose of Oddi’s telling had more truth than that would. “Why did my brother bare his throat for Solvi’s blade?” she asked when he was done. “Why should he be the sacrifice?”
Oddi had been sitting close to her so she could feel the heat of his body, and now he leaned back. “Your brother never has one reason for doing anything. He thought your—he thought Solvi was more likely to let him live than any other. He still does not believe Harald truly values him, and so he was trying to win what has already been won.” Oddi gave a short laugh. “And he told me that it was not his wyrd to die that day.”
“And it was not,” said Svanhild.
* * *
Ragnvald looked like a thundercloud at the feast that night. His seat at the high table was far away from Harald, with Oddi, as well as Hakon’s son Geirbjorn, interposed between them. Halfway through the skald Hornklofe’s telling of the battle against Solvi, Ragnvald rose and left the hall. He might only be going for a piss, for this late into a feast, many bladders strained. Still, it was rude not to remain for his own praise. Svanhild waited through another verse of the song, and when Ragnvald did not return, she followed him out into the night.
Curtains of white light swept across the sky, pulsating as if to the heartbeat of some strange beast. Ragnvald whirled when he heard her approach and put his hand on his sword. His shoulders slumped when he saw who it was.
“Oddi says I was harsh to you,” he said gravely, ducking his head so she could see only his profile, silhouetted against the dim lights in the sky. His expression was hidden; all she could make out was the shape of his face as it would look carved into stone.
“Oddi is a good friend to you,” said Svanhild.
“Oddi’s head is easily turned by a beautiful woman,” said Ragnvald. “But I do not accuse you of that. I have not wanted to know why you came here, because I was glad that you came. I should have asked more, and then I could have spared Harald—”
“Spared him what, an astonishing victory? He is well pleased, I am sure. Too well pleased.”
“I should have known what to expect,” said Ragnvald.
“But you knew that Solvi had allies,” said Svanhild.
“What?”
“You did. I have already heard the song. ‘None but Ragnvald the Wise could see what lay beyond the bend.’ You knew. So I must have told you. Or you figured it out. Why come here blaming me for your victory?”
“I left before the song was over,” said Ragnvald thickly. “Did it say what happened after the battle, what Norway’s protector did then?”
“It said he punished the traitors.”
“He did,” said Ragnvald. “Did it say how?” She shook her head, and so Ragnvald told her of the screams, and the dreadful deaths that followed. “He will lose followers for this.”
“It sounds as though he has already lost you,” said Svanhild. “Why does this trouble you so? Traitors should be punished. My—Solvi would have done the same thing. Or gotten Ulfarr to do it.”
“That is not a recommendation,” said Ragnvald. And, as an afterthought, “I killed Ulfarr.”
“Good,” said Svanhild. “I hated him.”
“You hated him, and yet Harald did what Ulfarr would have done.”
Svanhild wondered if anyone lived who was wise and patient enough to follow all the threads of Ragnvald’s self-blame and anger, and lay them out straight. As long as Ragnvald did not blame her anymore, she could hope for nothing else. “How else is he to make men frightened to betray him in the future? If the choice is loyalty and an easy death in battle or betrayal and maiming, he has made it more tempting to choose loyalty.”
“Or outright rebellion.”
“What concerns you more, that he has hurt these men or hurt his chances to unite Norway?” Svanhild asked. Or hurt Ragnvald’s shining image of him, the golden king, the law bringer, the bringer of peace.
“I will trouble you with this no further,” said Ragnvald. “It seems not to trouble any of Harald’s other followers.”
“Was your vision of him not as a golden wolf that sometimes destroyed what it touched?” Svanhild asked. Ragnvald turned toward her, his features picked out by the lamplight shining from within the hall. She gave him an ironic smile. “That one is sung as far as Dublin, at least. Is your vision betrayed? Should I take you as my prize back to Solvi?”
“No, of course not,” said Ragnvald.
“Then you must forgive Harald for being a man and not a legend.”
“I never thought I would hear that from you. Did you not think that we should both be legends if we could? Did you not want to be another Gunnhilda, and murder our stepfather for what he did?”
Svanhild flushed. “Everyone grows up eventually. And you got there first.” He turned over her hand, and touched the fading calluses from ships’ lines and her dagger grip. He gave it a squeeze, and her a rueful smile.
“You are cold,” he said. “Let us go back inside.”
“What will you do?” Svanhild asked. She understood Ragnvald’s hurt in some way, but she could never be shocked by what men did, even men considered wise and just. Could it be that her travels at Solvi’s side had taught her more of the world than all of Ragnvald’s battles?
“I want to speak to my king,” said Ragnvald. “I have a new bargain to make with him.”
22
Ragnvald followed Svanhild back into the feasting hall. She, Oddi, even Harald—none of them cared about Ragnvald’s missteps in the Solskel battle, or seemed concerned about the cruel punishment of Heming’s men. Even Heming had accepted it. So these misgivings were Ragnvald’s alone, like his dreams, his vision, and his black moods after a battle. And, like those, he must accept these misgivings as a part of himself, without expecting anyone else to join him in them. On the return trip from Tafjord, he had been short with his king, hoping to make Harald feel his disapproval. But Harald refused to admit he had done anything wrong.
For a long time Ragnvald had reproached himself for not having Harald’s ease and charisma, his magical luck. Those lacks might be a blessing, though; he did not need to conquer all of Norway, only hold on to what he had. Though the tethers that bound him to Harald, formed of wyrd and oaths and companionship, could only be broken by the gods, Ragnvald could put some distance between them and return to be king of Sogn. He had been too eager to fulfill Ronhild’s prophecy, but if it were a true prophecy, it would be fulfilled wi
thout his striving. Of the many things Svanhild had said to Ragnvald, one was certainly true: Harald was a man, not a god.
Whether Harald’s punishment had been a king’s necessary cruelty, as Svanhild would have it, or not, it had tainted Ragnvald’s victory and made him reluctant to continue fighting at Harald’s side. Harald wanted to marry Svanhild—very well, Ragnvald would put that question to Svanhild, and tell Harald her answer, whatever it was. He no longer feared her decision. A man, even a prophesied king, must hear a refusal sometimes.
He rejoined Harald at the high table, sitting in the empty seat that had been occupied by one of Harald’s women. The skald reprised the high points of the battle and Ragnvald’s sacrifices. As he finished, the hall filled with cries of “King Harald Tanglehair! Ragnvald the Mighty!” When he was a boy, Ragnvald had told himself that one day a hall of warriors would shout his name, and he tried to imagine how that boy would feel now, to enjoy this moment without bitterness.
“What is his reward?” someone called out.
Harald rose so all could hear him. “I promised those nine men on the boats a jarl’s wergild as reward, and they shall have it. But Ragnvald is already more than a jarl—my friend, what will be your reward?”
Ragnvald stood as well. He had dressed to be admired tonight, in a deep red tunic of costly silk, with a gold arm ring that Harald had given him clasped around his bicep. Later, he would exchange it for livestock to help his Sogn farmers, but tonight he could wear it, and look the part of Ragnvald the Mighty.
“What is more precious than gold?” Ragnvald asked. “That is what I will ask for.”
“What is more precious than gold?” Harald repeated. “All of my daughters are too young for marriage yet!” The crowd laughed, and Ragnvald waited for them to quiet before he spoke again.
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