“You know that he would not agree to leave Ivar unless his father told him to,” said Vigdis.
“Then you have your answer,” Ragnvald replied. He wondered if he should order Vigdis to fetch Einar out. But if he slept, Ragnvald would not disturb him. He envied that sleep, surrounded by the voices of women, and clouds of wool that smelled like a new-washed spring day.
“I could visit you in South Maer,” said Vigdis. “Atli trusts me, and lets me do as I wish. And I know you would like to see me again.”
“Atli is foolish to trust you,” said Ragnvald.
“I miss you,” she said, looking at the rush-covered floor. “I didn’t think I would, but Atli does not understand me as you did.” Her golden hair brushed over her face and would be soft as a caress if Ragnvald touched it.
“I wish I did not,” said Ragnvald.
She moved close to him, and whispered in his ear. “Meet me. The bathhouse is empty after dinner. It is cold, but we will warm each other.”
Ragnvald’s whole body heated, but this would break his fragile peace with Hilda. He stepped back from Vigdis.
“Is Svanhild within?” he asked her.
“No,” said Vigdis softly, still standing close to him. “Will you be there?”
He shook his head. “That time is past,” he said. “If Atli manages Sogn well for me, then you will see your son from time to time.”
23
Harald began his Yule celebration with a great sacrifice to placate the gods in the darkest part of the year, ensure the return of light and sun, and begin the greatest of the year-turning feasts. All of his guests and the residents of Nidaros made a procession to the temple grove in the depths of the darkest night. Harald and men he wished to honor, including Ragnvald and Oddi, presided over the sacrifice of two of every type of farm animal, including horses, and let the blood flow into a vast cauldron that had been set into a pit. Ragnvald’s arms grew tired from holding the ax before he was done, and the smell of blood reminded him too much of Grai and Illugi’s bloody hut at Tafjord.
Every person in attendance, from the oldest down to the youngest child, dipped his hands in the blood, and blessed the carvings of the gods that lined the grove. Einar dipped his on his own, while Hilda had to coax Ivar to wet the palms of his hands and then wipe them clean on dry leaves. The sacrifice meat would cook in the grove for three days and be served on the final night of feasting. Until then, they would eat cheese, fish, and grains, making the first meat of the new year taste all the richer. Before men grew too drunk from feasting, they made oaths they intended to keep for the rest of their lives, for the gods watched closely at Yule.
Harald called Ragnvald to swear an oath to protect South Maer and Sogn in his name, and then he called up Atli. Atli swore, on pain of death, that neither he nor his sons would seek to inherit Sogn, that he would never speak ill of Ragnvald, and that he would continue to improve the fortunes of the people of Sogn, according to Ragnvald’s plans. Ragnvald required that Atli agree to remain in Nidaros until he and his family had quit Sogn. Heming Hakonsson swore to follow Ragnvald’s advice in protecting North Maer, and to uphold Harald’s laws. He met Ragnvald’s gaze and gave him a slight smile and a nod when he swore, as if he welcomed Ragnvald’s presence.
Harald called Hakon’s sons Geirbjorn and Herlaug next. Ragnvald had not seen Herlaug since his wounding, and looked on his face with a thrill of horror. The flickering torches that lit the sacrifice grove made it look even more ghoulish than it would in bright daylight. Ragnvald had heard that his wound had healed poorly, and Harald’s mother, Ronhild, though she was the best healer in the Norse lands, had been forced to cut away infected flesh to preserve his life. The result was a scar so tight and angry that he could barely open his mouth, and it tugged down the flesh under his eye so he could not fully close it.
“I have decided a price for your wounding,” said Harald. “Your father swore on your behalf, but you are men who must swear for yourselves. Arnfast is outlawed from all districts controlled by King Hakon and his sons. I further impose a fine of four measures of gold, paid to Herlaug for the injury, if you swear to agree to it. You will swear not to visit other punishment on Arnfast, or try to drive him from his home into land where you can kill him.”
“Both of us?” Geirbjorn asked.
“All of Hakon’s sons will swear,” said Harald. “Heming, Oddbjorn Hakonsson, do you both swear to this?”
“I will swear,” said Heming. “I swear that I will take no revenge against Arnfast.”
“I do swear as well,” said Oddi.
“Traitors,” Herlaug hissed.
“You’re getting paid very well for a mistake,” said Oddi. “Swear.”
“What if I don’t?” Herlaug asked. His scar distorted his words.
“Then you will be outlawed,” said Harald.
“A fine thing,” said Geirbjorn, “that my brother should be outlawed for his own wounding.”
“Your brother will be compensated like a king,” said Harald. “And both of you given kingdoms after you spend some seasons defending Vestfold.”
“You think you’re giving us kingdoms?” asked Geirbjorn with a sneer. “The sons of Hakon are not given such things—we take.”
Harald should separate these two, Ragnvald thought. No good could come of Geirbjorn stoking his brother’s anger.
“So you will not swear?” Harald asked. “You would rather be outlawed? Very well, you have until the Yule feast is over to quit Norway.”
“We will swear,” said Herlaug thickly. “Won’t we, brother? Our father agreed to this. I swear not to punish Arnfast for this wounding.”
“I likewise swear,” Geirbjorn repeated. Then, under his breath, he added, “A coward like that will give us some other excuse to punish him.”
Others had oaths to swear, though none that needed Harald’s witness, and so he led the procession back to the drinking hall for the feasting. Svanhild fell into step next to Ragnvald, as the procession swelled around them in the crowd’s eagerness for food, drink, and warmth.
“That looked worrisome,” said Svanhild as she reached Ragnvald’s elbow.
“Harald sends them to Vestfold,” said Ragnvald. “That will keep them out of trouble.” Oddi just shrugged.
“I am sorry,” said Svanhild. “They are your brothers.”
“And I hope Vestfold is far enough,” Oddi replied. “Do not worry—feast and be merry tonight. Tell me you are to sit by me, fair maid.”
“Fair matron.” Svanhild laughed, returning Oddi’s flirtation. Ragnvald had found reasons over the past few days to avoid asking Svanhild if she wished to marry Harald. But Harald had given him enough significant looks tonight, tilting his head toward Svanhild, that Ragnvald could delay no longer. He feared her refusal, and he feared her acceptance. What more would he owe Harald if he did Svanhild this honor?
Ragnvald handed Oddi his torch and guided Svanhild out of the crowd, trying not to mar her festival clothes with his bloody hands. “Harald has offered for you,” he said abruptly, as soon as it seemed they might not be overheard. “Do you want him?”
She laughed incredulously. “I’m pregnant with Solvi’s child. Did you tell him that?”
Ragnvald’s face grew cold. Svanhild brought betrayal with her in her very body if she bore Solvi’s son. He moved away from her without meaning to, putting space between himself and women’s mysteries. “No, because I did not know. What do you mean to do with the child?”
“Raise her as my own,” said Svanhild. “Will you help me?”
A daughter, that would be better—and women sometimes had such magic that they knew these things. Ragnvald need fear Solvi’s daughter far less than his son.
“Do you think Harald would accept me anyway?” Svanhild asked.
“Do you want him to?” Ragnvald asked. “I swore I would not try to influence your decision.”
“Who did you swear to, brother? Harald?”
“Myself,” said Ragnvald.
She laughed again, a broken sound. “Then you can break that oath and advise me.”
“I cannot,” said Ragnvald. “I do not know what is the right thing for you, or for me.”
“I thought you knew everything, Ragnvald the Wise.” Svanhild slipped her arm through his. “Must I decide immediately?”
“No,” said Ragnvald. “I will tell him that you want to wait to bear this child if you like.” He turned her to face him. “I swear I will care for your child, if you swear that you will not send the child to Solvi, whether it is a boy or a girl. If it is a son, I will make him one of my heirs. If it is a daughter, I will dower her.” Svanhild hesitated. Ragnvald could see that a part of her wanted to bring a son back to Solvi to replace the one they had lost. “Promise me, Svanhild.”
“It will be a daughter.” Svanhild hugged her arms around herself. “But I swear. This child will not go to Solvi. He will not kill another of my children.”
* * *
Svanhild walked with Ragnvald until they reached the hall, and then followed the other women into the kitchen. So, Harald wished to marry her. She hoped she was not mistaken when she told Ragnvald of her pregnancy. She had passed another month without her courses, and suffered occasional bouts of sickness. Her stomach had a curve to it that it had not when she had left Solvi. Now that she had spoken it, she must admit the truth to herself: Solvi’s child had taken firm root. And she had told Ragnvald. Soon Harald would know; soon everyone would know.
Every woman in Nidaros was needed to help with the Yule feast, and work would prevent her from worrying for a time. Harald’s wife Asa Hakonsdatter had set the menu for the feast, and directed the kitchen staff, while his famous betrothed, Gyda Eiriksdatter, was in charge of serving and entertainment. Asa sent Svanhild out to the feasting hall with a jug of ale, and instructed her to pour a glass of ale for each guest who entered, which she did, returning to the kitchen many times over to refill her jug. The feast would last for three days of eating and drinking, with entertainment and fresh food in Harald’s drinking hall day and night. Guests had arrived early and would stay late, and must have food at all times. Even the lowly must have their chance to celebrate.
So many torches lined the hall that it seemed as bright as a dragon’s cave, with golden light spilling into every corner. At the high table Harald sat with Asa on one side and Gyda on the other. Asa wore a fresh scarf around her hair, and a new overdress rather than one covered with kitchen stains. Gyda had been well named the most beautiful woman in Norway. She looked as skalds described the light elves, with high cheekbones, gently curling, red-gold hair, and eyes as blue as the depths of a glacier. She seemed to be carved of ice and fire, not the wood and earth that made up most people. Svanhild tried to imagine herself as another of Harald’s wives, small and dark-haired next to these two golden beauties, and failed.
Harald gave a toast, invoking Yules past, and calling down blessings for a rich new year. Svanhild remembered dipping Eystein’s hands in the blood at other Yule celebrations on other shores, and telling him about the wolves that chased the sun and the moon, and, on the darkest night of the year, caught and devoured them. The wolves then, given the right sacrifices, vomited them back up so the year could begin anew. She had clasped bloody hands with Solvi, shared a kiss that tasted of the sacrifice ale, and felt herself well blessed.
Harald finished his blessing, and then the sound of spoons in platters and people eating and calling for more drowned out the musicians except the high piping of the flute. Harald met Svanhild’s eyes and raised his glass to her. She returned the gesture, taking a moment to admire him: his brilliant hair, his shoulders that stretched his tunic tight. She would not mind a night or two in his bed, but she did not want marriage with him, not yet.
“You stare intently at the high table,” said Oddi to her in an undertone. “We are lucky to be seated here, away from the power games.”
“Not far enough,” said Svanhild.
Atli called out across the table to Ragnvald, “Perhaps when they are grown, you will marry a daughter of mine to one of your sons, if you are pleased with my work.”
“We shall see,” said Ragnvald after a pause. “Have you any daughters?”
“Not yet, but I still have time.” Atli nodded, smiled—grossly, Svanhild thought, his wet lips pulling back over long teeth—and raised his glass in thanks. She could not imagine how Vigdis could stomach taking him to bed.
“You mean to stay with my brother?” Svanhild asked Oddi. “Not follow Harald in his conquests so more songs can be made of your deeds?”
“A man who stands by Ragnvald the Mighty will always have songs made about him,” said Oddi lightly. “Hornklofe means to send one of his apprentice skalds with him to Naustdal, in case anything heroic should happen.”
“That is flattering,” said Svanhild.
“Yes,” said Oddi. “They are Harald’s spies, though they make a song or two when they have nothing else to do.” Svanhild did not reply. She felt terribly naive. “Their memories are well trained. Hornklofe, it is said, can repeat any conversation he has ever heard perfectly. He goes into a trance to do it.”
“I don’t believe it,” said Svanhild. “Does it come out with alliterations and meter? Does he remember to call a sword a sword, or does he have it an arm-eel eagle-feeder?”
Oddi laughed, as she intended him to, at the excesses of bad poetry. “He is a better poet than that,” said Oddi.
“True,” said Svanhild. Hornklofe’s songs had the force of magic to bend minds and memory. He made the words that defined Harald’s reign and evoked his vision for Norway. Solvi should have had a skald by him, to sing of how Harald would betray the freedom of their fathers. She tried to put him from her mind. She need no longer think of his ambitions.
“You grow quiet,” said Oddi.
“I am thinking of the work I must do tonight. A feast does not serve itself. Or clean up after itself.”
“We men have skalds to sing of our work, but who sings of the work of women?” Oddi asked. “Except your adventures. We have all heard of those.”
“Yes,” said Svanhild. “Now I must go and do some of that unsung work. If you find a skald who wants to make a song of it, bid him find me in the kitchen so he can follow and record my great deeds.”
Svanhild returned a while later, after overseeing the food to be stored in the cold pantry for tomorrow. When she returned to the drinking hall, the feast had progressed into more quiet drunkenness. Harald had pulled Gyda into his lap. Her cheeks wore a blush of pink, and her eyes a sparkle that made them more human, though she still sat upright, holding herself somewhat away from him.
Ragnvald and Hilda had both departed the hall. During a celebration that lasted this long, guests might come and go, or sleep where they fell and wake to celebrate in the morning. Oddi had a woman in his lap whom Svanhild recognized as Mafa, Hilda’s servant and nursemaid. Nearby, on the floor, Ragnvald’s son Einar tried to free the tail of his shirt from a small black dog that had taken hold of it, while Ivar giggled with the sort of hectic laughter that Svanhild had heard from her own son sometimes that could easily turn to tears of exhaustion. Eystein would have liked his cousins: thoughtful, serious Einar, and sweet Ivar.
Svanhild walked over to the chair that Oddi and Mafa shared and stood in front of them until the girl looked up at her. “Don’t you think you should put them to bed?” She put her hands on her hips, and tilted her head toward the boys.
Mafa shrugged, and moved with irritating slowness away from Oddi, arranging her clothes as she did. She had a rounded body that Svanhild thought would grow stout as a barn when she grew older, though now she looked like an inviting armful, no chance of encountering a hard hip bone when throwing a leg over her.
Oddi did not seem annoyed to have his companion ordered away from him. “Sit with me,” said Oddi, patting the narrow space next to him on his chair.
“I’m sure Mafa will come back,” she said. All around h
er, the sounds of sleep and copulation carried to Svanhild’s ears. Even the crackling of the fire sounded satisfied with itself, the soft rustles and plinks of logs breaking apart into glowing embers.
“I don’t think she will,” said Oddi. “She thinks that you are jealous of her, and she does not want to compete with a king’s sister.”
“Ha,” said Svanhild. “And what do you think?”
“I think I could never aim so high,” said Oddi, with mock deference. He must have no difficulty talking women of all ranks into his bed.
Svanhild did want him, she realized. He was not handsome, but his expression, and the way he held his arms open to her, as easy and lazy as a cat in the sun, appealed to her. Why should she sleep alone when couples all around her enjoyed each other? Her husband was leagues away, and would be no longer her husband as soon as a year passed or Harald pronounced a divorce. She would not marry Harald until this child was born. She was free for now.
“What are you thinking?” Oddi asked. She had been looking at him for a long while, she realized.
“I was making up my mind,” said Svanhild.
“To do what?”
She bent down so she might whisper in his ear. “To take you to bed,” she said. “What else is there to do tonight?” She enjoyed the look of surprise on his face.
He recovered quickly, and put an arm around her so she fell down into his lap. “Happy to help you pass the time.”
“I won’t be pawed out in the open,” said Svanhild. She pushed herself up off him so she could stand again.
He reached out his hand, and Svanhild took it. “As long as you don’t try to break my finger again,” he said.
“As long as you remember that I can.” She led him by the hand, out to one of the barns she knew had been newly cleaned, and was only half-full of sheep. It was so dark within she could hardly see Oddi except where he blocked the faint blue light that came from between the gaps in the barn’s wall. The dark and privacy made her bold. She stripped off her overdress and underdress, leaving them aside until she stood, cooling and naked in the hay-sweet air.
The Sea Queen Page 28