“Time,” said Ragnvald. “Time is more precious than gold. Give me leave to defend my home from rebels like Solvi, and time to raise my sons into your loyal subjects. That is my request.”
Harald looked hurt for a moment, and then covered it quickly. “What happened to Ragnvald’s never-ending reticence?” he asked the hall. “I expected to have to press a reward upon you. But this is not right—what you ask is not enough reward for your service.” He pulled a gold ring from one of his arms and handed it to Ragnvald. “Your arms should match.”
Ragnvald molded the soft, pure gold around his unadorned arm as men cheered. Harald leaned over to say in his ear, “You are too valuable a captain for me to lose. No one else could have won that battle.”
“I cannot be everywhere,” said Ragnvald. “Let us talk tomorrow.”
* * *
On the hill above Harald’s main living and entertaining halls stood a smaller building, a little hall built for only one man. Harald slept there, with his favorite woman of the moment, and servants who could wait upon him at any time of day or night.
Within the single room, before a backdrop of woven hangings heavy with gold, Harald sat with his uncle Guthorm. A bottle of wine and fine pewter goblets stood on the table, with a plate of bread and cheese, but no servant hovered, ready to pour for them: true privacy. Harald must fear spies.
“What you said last night was close to rebellion,” said Guthorm, before Ragnvald could sit down. Ragnvald felt a punch of panic in his stomach—what Guthorm intended for him to feel—and swallowed it. Guthorm wanted to put him on the defensive. Ragnvald had used that trick himself from time to time.
“No, uncle,” said Harald. “Ragnvald is my loyal captain. I have never before had reason to doubt him.”
A softer approach from Harald, but still an implication of blame. Ragnvald gave them an amused half smile. He took his seat before them, poured himself a glass of the wine, and then tugged the food toward himself and cut off a hunk of the hard-aged cheese. He took his time collecting the flavorful crumbles onto a slice of bread.
“Thank you for the cheese,” he said, pretending he had not been paying attention to either of their words. “Your housekeeper at Nidaros knows her business. Is this Asa Hakonsdatter’s handiwork?”
“Yes,” said Harald. “She is not my comeliest wife, but she gives me sons and her cheese is—”
“Did you come here to discuss cheese?” asked Guthorm testily.
Ragnvald glanced at Harald, who shrugged. “I came at your invitation,” said Ragnvald.
“You want to leave King Harald’s service,” said Guthorm. “As I said, it is close to rebellion.”
Ragnvald pushed the plate of cheese back toward him, and poured his glass and Harald’s full. “We should toast before we conduct any business. May the gods grant we all make wise decisions.”
Harald and Guthorm returned the toast, Harald with a smile for Ragnvald that excluded Guthorm, who met Ragnvald’s eyes with a scowl.
“My king,” said Ragnvald. “You have won notable victories, but without men to hold those lands, the victories are meaningless. The northwest coast was your earliest conquest, and will remain yours only if you can keep it. Your subject kings, among them Hakon’s sons and myself, can hold the land, so you are free to attack farther south, and root out the pockets of dissent. And Sogn needs me to fulfill the promises I have made as king. I have been trying to return Sogn to prosperity so it can add to your wealth, but when I am gone during the whole of the growing season—”
“You’re no farmer, Ragnvald,” said Harald. “You’re a warrior.”
“I was raised to farm and defend my land, like my forefathers,” said Ragnvald. “Do you mean to conquer, or do you mean to rule?” His anger at Harald’s treatment of Heming’s men made his voice harsher than he intended. He wished Guthorm absent. Without him, Ragnvald thought he could at least have persuaded Harald to punish Grai and Illugi for violating his later order of mercy. Harald should make a show of justice, even if he did not mean it.
“I will conquer until I rule,” said Harald. He twisted his matted beard.
“Until you do, you need rulers,” said Ragnvald. “You call me king, so let me rule. You do not need me at every battle.”
“But I would not have won that battle without you,” said Harald.
“You would not have had to fight it had Maer been fully defended,” Ragnvald returned.
Guthorm frowned. “Ragnvald the Wise has an answer for everything,” he said.
“A man cannot be everywhere,” said Ragnvald.
“I don’t understand why you no longer want to be by my side,” said Harald, and then glanced away as though he had not meant to speak so plainly.
Ragnvald looked at Harald until Harald met his gaze again. He could not entirely hide his disappointment with Harald, and the anger he still felt. Though he would not sustain that anger in the face of Harald’s need for him—that was a headier draught than the wine Guthorm had given him. He forced himself to remember the maimed men at Tafjord. Harald would disappoint him again, even in victory. In his own land, Ragnvald could protect those who fought for him.
“Ragnvald is right,” said Guthorm, with sudden good cheer, turning toward Harald. “But what good does it do to send a man of his ability to Sogn, which has never been under threat? It has no rebel king who wants it back. Before you took battle to Solvi, you agreed that Atli the Slender should watch over Sogn, while Ragnvald makes Maer into a strong district that will never fall again.”
Harald still looked troubled. “Is that why you want to leave?” he asked Ragnvald. “I will expel Atli from Sogn at once, if it keeps you by my side. You have been with me at so many battles. For me to lose you would be as if you—as if you lost Oddi.”
Ragnvald had occasionally imagined Oddi leaving him, going to fight for one of his brothers, or for his father. He wanted to test his feelings, to see if he could survive the loss, but he could never even imagine it without a wrench in his gut. And he never allowed himself to picture Oddi’s death. Harald could not possibly see Ragnvald the same way, as a loyal companion, a brother warrior. He was a god-blessed king. With this new bargain Harald offered him everything; Ragnvald could choose to keep Sogn and Harald, or lose both.
“Atli is an ally,” said Guthorm, interrupting Ragnvald’s thoughts. Ragnvald looked away from Harald, and turned toward Guthorm: an image of Harald aged, grown cold to anything but victory.
“I have yet to see that do us any good,” said Ragnvald softly. Atli was a wedge Guthorm had tried to drive between him and Harald.
“He has freed you to protect Maer and greater Norway,” said Guthorm. “For that good alone I will praise him.”
“You sent Atli to Sogn, told him the seat stood empty,” said Ragnvald. “Were you sending him to kill me, or me to kill him?” Guthorm stood and reached for his sword. Harald put a hand on his arm and made him sit again.
“Your love for this man blinds you,” said Guthorm to Harald, speaking more bluntly than Ragnvald had ever heard before. “He doubts you at every turn and makes you doubt yourself.” To Ragnvald he said, “You are still angry at Harald, are you not, even when he rescinded his order against the traitors?” He did not wait for Ragnvald to answer. “And, nephew, you took back your order, and made yourself look weak when your men carried it out anyway. Let Ragnvald stay home if he’s no more stomach for battle.”
“I cannot lose when you are with me,” said Harald to Ragnvald.
“You will never lose,” said Guthorm. “Your mother dreamed you as a tree whose branches spread over all of Norway.”
“Ragnvald?” said Harald.
“Your uncle is right,” said Ragnvald. He looked at Harald’s beard rather than into his eyes, and then at his hands, big and sword-callused. “Let me defend your lands for a time. I will return to you if you need me, I swear it.”
“I will give you South Maer all for yourself, to add to Sogn, if you protect it and help H
eming protect North Maer,” said Harald.
“Hakon and Heming will not like that,” said Guthorm.
“Heming can protect North Maer better with Ragnvald’s help,” said Harald. “Ragnvald should be compensated with something for quitting his home.”
“Sogn is still mine,” said Ragnvald. “I will agree to this if Atli swears never to claim kingship. The leading men of Sogn will come to the ting every year and renew their oaths to me. Everything he does for Sogn must be in my name.”
“That is well,” said Guthorm. “You will make your oaths at Yule, and move your household to Naustdal in South Maer in the spring.” He had agreed quickly enough that Ragnvald wondered if this was the direction Guthorm wanted to steer him from the beginning.
* * *
Hilda stared at Ragnvald with the blank expression she always wore when she was unhappy. She had been sorting through the children’s clothes when Ragnvald told her of his conversation with Harald and their decision, and now finished folding a tunic, smoothing it out with an elegant motion of her long fingers. At times when he looked at her, her straight, tapered back, and saw her profile over the side of her shoulder, he saw a woman’s mystery, a loveliness that he wanted to touch and possess. Now he thought that what he had believed to be strength of character and a rebellious spirit when they were young was only stubbornness, and a willful dullness, a refusal to see anything beyond petty concerns about her comfort and her household.
Then he thought of how she had defended his sons when Atli came, and decided she was more like a female bear who did little violence unless her cubs were at risk. On hearing of her bravery against Atli he had admired her more than at any moment since the Sogn ting, when she had defied her father and claimed Ragnvald as her betrothed. He should not blame her for not being more like Svanhild, or Vigdis.
“I do not like it either,” said Ragnvald. “But he is my king. Your king too. Would you rather I spend another five years fighting, always away from home?”
“That is what warriors do,” said Hilda. “No, I didn’t mean that. Of course I want you home—I mean, isn’t Heming warrior enough to protect his land?”
“None of us can protect our land when we are weeks’ travel away,” said Ragnvald bitterly.
“Then Harald should do it,” said Hilda. She picked up the comb and found a tangle to attack, frowning when she pulled her own hair.
“He is. He is sending me,” said Ragnvald. The longer he had to defend Harald’s decision, the more he agreed with it. He could muster five hundred from Sogn, at least, and more from Maer, where word of his deeds had spread. He could choose captains to defend both districts from the water—let Atli help defend Sogn from land, since he was useless at sea.
“I do not want to leave Sogn. That is our hall. We built it.”
“Harald’s builders made it for us,” Ragnvald reminded her.
“It is ours.”
“Would you like to stay in Sogn?” he asked bitterly. “I am sure Atli would welcome you as housekeeper. Perhaps he might even welcome you into his bed—he seemed to like you well enough. But my sons are coming with me to Naustdal, and someone will need to care for them.”
“That was ill said.” Hilda’s mouth tightened. “I do not deserve that of you. I want you to protect your land, not someone else’s. Do you think Atli will continue your projects? Do you think he will make Sogn what it was when your grandfather was king?”
“He will swear to it,” said Ragnvald wearily. He knew that a man swearing an oath and fulfilling it were different things. Sigurd had also sworn to protect Sogn, but when Atli came it made no difference. “You are my wife. We must move to Naustdal.” Ragnvald put his arms around her, trying to take away her stiffness. “Or dress me in one of your shirts and ask for a divorce.” An old joke between them—Ragnvald had often said that because of Hilda’s height, he must be very careful not to put on her clothing and give her an excuse for divorce, for a man dressing as a woman was often used as justification for divorce when nothing else could be found.
“Do you think now is the best time for that jest?” Hilda’s voice was thick, with tears or anger, Ragnvald could not tell. “I want to be with you, and our sons. If this is—I will try to give you more sons if I must. I know you may divorce me over that.” When Ragnvald did not answer, she added, “Even if the next child kills me.”
Ragnvald let go of her waist. “I did not come here to fight about this.”
“No, you’ve spent all your time with Svanhild since you returned from battle—I had to hear it in a song that you nearly threw your life away in Tafjord—”
“At least Svanhild listens to me,” said Ragnvald. “You did not even ask what it was like in Tafjord.”
“Svanhild! Why not marry her, then, if she is a better wife to you?”
“You seem determined to fight with me,” said Ragnvald. “I have told you what you need to know.” He turned to leave.
“And your sister will not argue, I suppose. Did she ask of your troubles, or did you simply pour out your woes to her, a woman who has lost her son and her husband?”
Ragnvald had no reply to that, except to feel ashamed. Svanhild had come to him with her hurts when they were children, but no longer. Her son was dead and her marriage broken. He did not know how to mourn for a boy he had never met, except to feel that a promise, the promise that he would meet and know his nephew, had been broken. The sons of a man’s sister were said to be the sons of his heart.
“Did she not come to you with her troubles?” Ragnvald asked. “They are a woman’s troubles.”
“I don’t think your sister is much used to going to women for comfort,” said Hilda.
“We will leave Nidaros after Yule,” said Ragnvald. “You will have another winter in Sogn, and spring as well, for it will take time to build a living hall for us in South Maer.”
“I have heard that you burned a hall there,” said Hilda. “Again from a song and not from you.” Her words filled Ragnvald with anger that choked off his speech. As he walked toward the door, she called after him, “I have been trying to find you a suitable concubine.”
That stopped him short. Hilda had hated Vigdis, and she would surely hate any other woman he brought. She would be jealous, as was natural, and only accept it because she wanted to bear no more children herself.
“She should be beautiful,” said Hilda in a strained voice. “She should have some useful skill I do not. She should not be high-born, so her sons will not compete with ours, unless they prove themselves worthy. That is what I have heard makes a good concubine.”
“Hilda,” said Ragnvald, bemused.
“I am your wife,” said Hilda. “I was not born to be the wife of a king, but I am one now. Our sons will be worthy sons for a king, and I am their mother. I fear this move to Maer, because I fear that Atli will take Sogn from us forever. But if it is what must be, then . . .” She spread out her hands, a conciliatory gesture. “You are a man of honor. You would not humiliate me by divorcing me.”
“No,” said Ragnvald. “I—it was a jest. A poorly timed jest.” He took her hands. “You are a better wife than I deserve. Do not compare yourself with—with anyone. As for the rest”—he shrugged—“these are choppy waters. But I will ask your advice next time about how I should steer.”
* * *
Outside was cold, with a biting wind that drove frigid rain against Ragnvald’s cheeks. Above, the sky rippled with clouds as turbulent as a stormy sea. He tightened his cloak around him. This weather suited his mood. He needed to talk with Svanhild, relay Harald’s proposal, and see what she wanted to do. He needed to tell his sons—Einar and Ivar were old enough, at least, to understand the practicalities of moving. Ragnvald had been an inconstant presence in his sons’ lives until now, away for half the year fighting, and often away with Harald at Yule as well. He should tell Oddi too, and see if Oddi wanted to follow him to Naustdal in South Maer, though the opportunities for battle spoils there would be fewer.
“King Ragnvald,” she said. “Do you seek your sons? Do you want to hold little Rolli?”
“No,” said Ragnvald. “Do not wake him.” He asked Ivar, “Where is your brother Einar?”
Ivar looked up, and seeing his father, smiled broadly, though his face grew quickly troubled. “He is in the women’s chamber. With the lady Vig—Vig—”
“Vigdis,” Ragnvald finished for him. It was ill-luck for a man to enter the women’s chamber, especially uninvited. He sent the thrall to fetch Einar. Instead Vigdis emerged, brushing white wool fibers off her clothing. She dressed simply today, in a brown homespun that would make most women look plain, but made her look warm and inviting.
“I am looking for my sons,” said Ragnvald.
“Einar rests,” said Vigdis. “He tells me he has hardly slept in Nidaros, too worried about protecting his brother from Harald’s boys. But I hear you have broken with Harald, and he will need to fear them no longer. I hear that we all depart for Sogn after Yule. That gladdens me, for the child needs true rest.” Ragnvald had not thought about Vigdis’s presence in Sogn, which would certainly spoil his new peace with Hilda. “Perhaps you will leave him with me in Sogn sometimes,” she added. “We will be neighbors. It will not be hard to arrange.”
“I will ask him,” said Ragnvald, absently. Vigdis’s pleasant expression faltered. “Would he not desire to be with his mother?”
The Sea Queen Page 27